


Morality Is Grey

by thein273



Series: Morality Is Grey but Trust Is Black and White [1]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders Are Best Friends, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Has Panic Attacks, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders Needs a Hug, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders is a Dark Side, Canon Compliant, Dark Sides As Family (Sanders Sides), Dark Sides As Friends (Sanders Sides), Gen, Hurt Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Morally Neutral Deceit | Janus Sanders, Panic Attacks, Protective Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Protective Deceit | Janus Sanders, Protective Morality | Patton Sanders, Protective Rage Sanders, Protective Sides (Sanders Sides), Sexual Humor, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Violence, even Rage, everyone is sympathetic, gather ye round children as I tell you an angst-ridden love note to the series, i.e. why I think Virgil went Light and nobody is the real bad guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 132,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27603248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thein273/pseuds/thein273
Summary: The day Paranoia became Anxiety Changed everything.Or: A Virgil-centric chronicle from Thomas' childhood on through to the aftermath ofSelflessness vs. Selfishness Redux.~*~"There's a new Side wreaking havoc on Thomas' Conscious Mind," Deceit said simply.Rage screeched to a halt, midway through taking out his anger problems on another dummy, and Remus froze two feet off the ground. Anxiety couldn't move, or breathe, or think past the white noise roaring in his mind."How is that possible?" Anxiety forced himself to ask. "I thought Thomas was done developing Sides."Deceit's eyes flicked toward him. Remus suddenly dropped down from the ceiling, spraying blood everywhere, and landed with a thud."Ooh! I know! Pick me! Pick me!" Remus' eyes took on a too-intense light. "Morality totally had an identity crisis and Split right down the middle, and it was bloody and awful and he was screaming and I bet Roman threw up all over both of them and Logic probably—"Deceit closed his fist and Remus' hand slapped over his mouth.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Everyone, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Rage | Rage Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Thomas Sanders
Series: Morality Is Grey but Trust Is Black and White [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018044
Comments: 327
Kudos: 166





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storytellerontheside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storytellerontheside/gifts).



> Utmost thanks to my beta, [_storytellerontheside_](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storytellerontheside/pseuds/storytellerontheside) for helping me sort through and edit this monstrosity into something readable. Please, I beg of you, go check out their fic, [_Cold Comfort_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23974468/chapters/57665689). If you like watching the Mindscape implode because the Sides can’t open their mouth holes and talk about their problems, and you like Janus, and you like brutally overworked, exasperated, give-this-poor-wine-snake-mom-a-break Janus, you will love it, I promise you. Storyteller is basically the only reason I finished this bad boy.
> 
> I am also aware that people hesitate strongly when they see OCs, but before you run for the hills, at least let me tell you that I have extensive history developing original characters for original fiction and I take great pride in making my characters feel like whole people. Besides, chronicling Virgil’s time with the Dark Sides requires that I take a crack at writing Orange, even though we know very little at this point. The fandom at large and my own brain leave me suspecting enough to feel mostly confident in what I have here, although watch canon come and blow this to high heaven before long.
> 
> There are a couple instances of dissociation in this fic. It’s pseudo-dissociation here because they’re Sides and not fully realized people who can experience complex psychological problems _like_ dissociation, but in application, it looks and reads the same. I educated the sections with dissociation with my own experiences, so be warned if you feel like that might be triggering for you to read. Trigger warnings will always be included at the beginning of a chapter in the notes, and if you ever feel I missed a trigger warning, let me know as soon as you can and I will add it. Anonymous reviews are allowed on this, so you don't have to sign in to do it if you're not comfortable.
> 
> For those of you who don’t know, dissociation is a symptom of a variety of mental health conditions in which people become disconnected from reality. PTSD flashbacks are a type of dissociation, although other types include: feeling like your body doesn’t belong to you; not being able to move; not being able to feel anything emotionally; staring off into space for a prolonged period of time thinking nothing; retreating to a fantasy world inside your head for prolonged periods to escape stress; and many, many more incredibly valid experiences. 
> 
> If you are curious about dissociation or feel like you might experience it, I encourage you to look into it further. Medical sites about it can be confusing and it took me a long time to realize I suffered from it because I didn't experience it the way they worded it. You are free to message me anonymously or under your username below if you would like to ask about my personal experience.
> 
> Also, to those who experience gender dysphoria, I maybe borrowed a little too heavily from my experiences with that when writing the Sides experiencing discomfort around incorrect titles or names. It’s not a constant thing and more a flavoring that isn’t too lingered on, especially as things progress, but you deserve to know there’s that potential trigger here.
> 
> I also suffer from pretty severe anxiety, so Virgil’s attacks are based on reality—if somewhat divorced in places because I can bend the rules here. There’s copious amounts of Remus being Remus with the sexual and gross humor and ideas in here, too. 
> 
> Lastly, I want to thank the many TSSides theorists on Tumblr I would credit with a lot of the headcanons I borrowed from them if I knew how to navigate Tumblr in a way to find them again. Those of you who posted elaborate articles on why Orange is Anger/Rage, thank you—and whoever said Janus rattles like a rattlesnake. Also, thanks to PickYourPoison, a youtube channel whose well-researched theories helped me adjust a few things with my OC and feel more confident in him.
> 
> And again, thanks to storytellerontheside for being a spectacular beta and friend.
> 
> Updates biweekly as much as I can manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Dissociation (bolded section--skip if you need), Remus being Remus, a brief bit of fat-shaming that is treated as a bad thing. If you find gender dysphoria triggering, you _might_ want to be a little cautious because I drew some from my experiences to write the symptoms of a Change, albeit exaggerated for a theatrical effect.

_"I get overwhelmed so easily. / My anxiety / creeps inside of me, / makes it hard to breathe. / What's come over me? / Feels like I'm somebody else." ~ "Overwhelmed" by Royal & the Serpent_

* * *

* * *

_A DARK PURPLE BEANBAG sits in the center of a twilit room decorated in cobwebs and spider curtains. To its right hangs a poster of The Nightmare Before Christmas. The cobwebs shift and grow. The shadows elongate and darken. The walls undulate and ripple._

_A man with overgrown violet hair and pale skin appears a few feet from the beanbag with dark streaks running down his cheeks and a glossy expression. He staggers to the beanbag, crashing into it. The beads inside jostle. He stares at the wardrobe in front of him, behind which hang purple and black, spider-patterned curtains._

_Tears spill down his cheeks._

_The room suddenly adopts an intense orange glow and he surges forward, raking his fingernails across the wardrobe with a strangled screech, leaving light brown claw marks behind._

_The orange glow subsides, and he sinks to his knees, leaning against the wardrobe. The mahogany is cool against his forehead. He chokes on a sob._

_"How did it get like this?" he whispers. He lifts his head and pushes the wardrobe aside. He raises the curtains and peels away the two-by-fours boarding it up to reveal a swirling black hole he regards with disgust and grief. "How could I let it get like this?"_

_But he already knows—and he knows he knows._

_He can already feel the claws of his past ripping into him, a snake-faced traitor cackling in victory beyond the veil. In opposing him, he played right into his hands, and now he's left with the pieces._

_Self-hatred and shame boils in his stomach. He sits on the beanbag again and stares at the curtains._

_Unbidden, the memories filter in, tickling the edges of his consciousness, straining their way through steel-reinforced foundations. They will not be restrained any longer, and he is so tired of fighting them._

_And so, Virgil closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and succumbs._

* * *

Something had Changed.

The stark whites of his eyes looked a natural white, like his complexion had taken on a faint pink twinge in the middle of the night, and his irises shined a saccharine brown rather than obsidian black. Terminal eyebags dragged his face down, and his tongue dragged gently over natural canines, instead of catching on pronounced fangs.

His grip tightened around the rim of the sink until his knuckles bled alabaster white like they should have been naturally. Of course. He should have known the second he tired last night that his purview had Changed—again.

Paranoia did not sleep. It was ever-vigilant, ever-primed to haunt you with promises of what Hitchcock-esque activities your neighbor with the giant garden sheers you had never seen her use on her overgrown hedges invested in them for. Nor did it waste energy fretting over life's inanities.

Thomas had homework. Logic partnered with the other Creativity to complete it. Morality rewarded the effort with a trip to the kitchen to raid the refrigerated store-bought box of chocolate chip cookies he wasn't supposed to eat without dinner.

Usually, Paranoia would step in then, scaring him with what heinous acts his mother would commit if she found him disobeying her this way—but _he_ didn't. He projected his voice and screamed, " _She's right behind you_!" No additional statements about the huge cleaver in her hands or anything else terrifying. Thomas slammed his hand in the door in his desperation to close it fast enough.

Endangerment. The _antithesis_ of Paranoia's purpose. Even when he had been Fear at his earliest conception, his job had been to _protect_.

Did the Known Sides disagree that he had Thomas' best interests at heart? Of course. They didn't have room in their tiny brains for anything not framed in pastel flowers. Paranoia's punk rock aesthetic didn't suit their delusional narrative.

Nevertheless, he had never strayed from his duty, even when Logic took the credit for forewarning Thomas about suspicious dangers. What in the name of all things angsty teen rock was _this_?

And Paranoia—or whatever he was, now—didn't stop then. He watched Thomas' every movement, of course, but he rarely spoke up. Never more than once in the same night unless it had been a terrible day full of betrayal and heartache.

Even though Thomas chose videogames over sweets as a reward, he screamed at him, again, that he had rushed his homework. He would get everything wrong. He would fail at the beginning of the semester. Logic entertained the urges long enough to check his work, but he put his foot down when Thomas fretted that the planner he was _barely_ still using maybe missed an assignment—or seven. He needed to call his friends, email his teachers, find out if there was something important he'd missed. _Right now_.

Thomas tried to retire to bed at that point, but the former Paranoia couldn't grant him rest even then. It wasn't until exhaustion overtook them both that he stopped tormenting his center.

The Unknown Side assessed his reflection again. He scoffed in disgust. He looked far too normal, almost like one of those pastel-clad optimists always twittering around about the Conscious Mind.

For a moment, he imagined manifesting to Thomas, the way the others sometimes could. Well… _manifest_ is a strong word. Thomas had an imagination strong enough to personify sides of his personality, where he then conversed with them to figure out life's dilemmas. Funny, how they always talked about the silly things while it remained The Unknown Sides' jobs to explore the monumental questions.

He shook off his bitterness. Thomas' subconscious moral quandary with the uglier parts of his personality aside, this purview shift could spell trouble. While he had always clung to the recesses of Thomas' mind, it was only as Paranoia that he found a true home with the other Unknowns. A stab of fear choked him. Would they still welcome him if they saw his new form? What if they chased him topside, only for the Knowns to tell him what he already knew: there was no room in the Conscious Mind for something like him?

His chest tightened. He crushed his eyes closed, struggling to breathe—and his vision split with Thomas'.

His friends would never understand these feelings he harbored for other boys. They would reject him. His family would find out and disown him. Where would he go? He couldn't be alone. He had to keep it to himself. _No one could know_.

Too late, whatever Paranoia had become realized his dilemma had overflowed onto Thomas. He'd already screamed, " **No one can know**!" before it hit him what he was doing. This had already grown out of hand. He needed to control this.

Just then, his room's alarm system blared—a grating sound that sent him crashing to the floor, clutching over his ears and choking on gasps or sobs, he didn't know which.

"Hey, Spiky!" sang a cheerfully demented voice through the door. "Deceit says I can test out the Iron Maiden on anyone who doesn't show up for the meeting, and I was hoping you wouldn't so we can try it out together! Wouldn't that be fun?"

His mind whited out, then—just blind, suffocating terror, pressing him harder yet into the wall while he struggled to think, to reason, to plan, to pivot— _anything_. He could already see the casket closing on him, deadly spikes getting closer, closer, Remus heedless to his screams, giggling and singing, "Poor Unfortunate Souls" from _The Little Mermaid_ , the others watching impassively, happy to watch the traitor die.

Wait. No, that…that didn't make sense. Right? Remus could only hurt Sides who gave him power. If they feared him, any harm he inflicted on them lasted until his influence waned—and the great part about Paranoia, he'd said, had always been that Paranoia didn't fear him and was always eager to explore bloody new avenues together. It was what made them such good friends.

Except Paranoia wasn't Paranoia anymore, was he? He _did_ fear Remus. So, if Remus locked him in an Iron Maiden…

No.

That settled it. _No one could know_. Paranoia—because that was who he _was_ , that was what he _did_ , and that was how it would _stay_ —brought his breathing under control. He had to stay sharp—stay _vigilante_. He rose to his feet. No more of this panicking nonsense.

Was that what he had become? He favored the question for just a second. Was his new focus Panic? But no. No, that somehow felt too limiting. Paranoia didn't fold over his skin at all, but Panic…Panic hugged too tight, choking him, suffocating his true purpose.

He shook the identity crisis off. Now was not the time. It would _never_ be the time. _Just accept that you're Paranoia and move on,_ he told himself.

"Spiky?" Remus' voice sounded bright and hopeful. "Can we try it now?"

Paranoia scowled at the mirror and called, in as even a voice as he could, "Not today!"

Paranoia watched the bruises under his eyes fade into porcelain skin, sickly white and unnerving. Select canines elongated to dangerous points. His eyes and surrounding veins flooded black. He unfurled his back vertebrae by vertebrae, until he stood at his full height.

"Thomas is a little extra-paranoid this morning. I'm working overtime."

He hoped it wouldn't count as a lie. It was true, wasn't it? Thomas still fretted over little things like peer pressure and his friends' acceptance—even if he didn't think they'd do anything to hurt him _physically_. He just worried about losing their respect, their support. But that was paranoia, too. Wasn't it?

Deceit didn't materialize behind him in a bowler hat and capelet, so Paranoia prayed he had been right. Otherwise, this meeting might spell disaster.

It took everything he had not to hyperventilate again, surging toward the door with more confidence than he felt. Just as he'd bent down to retrieve his machete from its umbrella bin by the door—no one with sense walked in the Subconscious unarmed—he glimpsed something dark out of the corner of his eye. He whirled, knife raised to hack Remus' newest love letter apart—and found a simple, black hoodie with a light grey crisscross pattern. It looked…comfortable. No.

It looked com _fy_.

Paranoia shoved out the door. He only looked back once.

* * *

The common area looked like Thomas' childhood living room, except barely a hair above pitch-black with blood, scorch marks, and spiderwebs covering it.

Paranoia found everyone exactly where he expected: Rage, with his lava hair, mismatched orange and cloudy eyes, and archaic armor, reclined against the stairwell, flinging daggers across the room at pictures of Thomas' bullies. They struck true each time. Remus—the Duke, by more mysterious name—dangled from the ceiling on an unfurled short intestine like an aerial acrobat, munching on his flavored deodorant. Deceit sat in Dad's armchair, massaging between his eyes with his shoulders hunched in a painfully uncharacteristic way.

Before Paranoia could linger on how tired Deceit looked, Rage shoved off the wall to face him. "Finally!" he exclaimed.

Paranoia flinched away, remembering the machete clutched in his dominant hand a little too late. He brandished it toward Rage to back him off, his heart jackhammering against his ribs.

"Whoa!" Rage threw up his hands. "Sparring match later, 'Noi. Deceit's got some pressing bullshit to scream at us about."

"Thomas has probably gone crazy!" Remus' elegant aerial dance would have been a lot prettier if blood didn't splatter all over everything every time the intestine jerked even a little. "And now he's braining all his classmates with textbooks and eating them! Especially the boy's pee-pees!"

"As long as Bobby Drake is first," Rage snarled, throwing a dagger over his shoulder. It embedded between the eyes of a Bobby Drake dummy.

Paranoia shuddered. He couldn't help it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Paranoia glimpsed Deceit, watching him. Both eyes tracked his every movement, fixating on him while the others chattered around them. Deceit had never been known for his expressiveness—he always looked bored or exasperated or annoyed, but his expression rarely shifted from that. Today, though, he wore a deepening frown Paranoia couldn't otherwise read. It unsettled him.

"Hey!" Remus cried, like something surprising had just occurred to him. "Spiky, why're your spikes different?"

"What?" Had Paranoia gotten something wrong about his disguise? He thought he got everything—he even checked. Oh God, they already knew, didn't they?

"Paranoia _certainly_ can't change—" Paranoia flinched, and Deceit paused for a moment himself, eyes flicking to look at him before fixating on Remus. "—his costume any time he likes, same as me."

"Yeah, but he always—"

"We _don't_ have more important problems, anyway," Deceit said, shifting forward.

"About that." Rage pulled out his baseball bat and swung a homerun on Charlene Smith's head. "What could seriously be so damn important? 'Noi and I've got an overdue date in the ring to get to."

"There's a new Side wreaking havoc on Thomas' Conscious Mind," Deceit said simply.

Rage screeched to a halt, midway through taking out his anger problems on another dummy, and Remus froze two feet off the ground. Paranoia couldn't move, or breathe, or think past the white noise roaring in his mind.

"How is that possible?" Paranoia forced himself to ask. "I thought Thomas was done developing Sides."

Deceit's eyes flicked toward him, and for a terrible moment, Paranoia thought he might already now—but then Remus fully unfurled, droplets of blood flying everywhere, some of which landed on Paranoia's cheek. He scowled, wiping it away, and Remus landed with a thud on the floor, waving his arms madly in the air.

"Ooh! I know! Pick me! Pick me!" Remus' eyes took on a too-intense light. "Morality totally had an identity crisis and Split right down the middle, and it was bloody and awful and he was screaming and I bet Roman threw up all over both of them and Logic probably—"

Deceit closed his fist and Remus' hand slapped over his mouth, but his eyes remained wild as he tried to babble against his palm. Deceit steered him to the couch and waited out the fit while Paranoia conjured a glass of tea for him, hating how difficult it felt to support his friend and not just find somewhere enclosed, dark, and cool to hide in.

Rage watched this all while ripping the heads off Barbie dolls. Deceit glanced at him, and he gutted an effigy of Mrs. Stewart, Thomas' least favorite teacher. He caught her guts in a bowl and set them down in Remus' lap as his hand fell limp to his lap and he stared off, numbly, into the distance, unseeing. Deceit guided his hand to the bowl of guts and set the tea on the table in front of him.

Remus wouldn't rejoin them for some time. He never did, after carrying himself through another gruesome rant about Splits. They were taboo for a reason, after all.

Even personified personality traits can be traumatized.

But Rage, Deceit and Paranoia still had business to attend to.

"How long do you figure before this little asshole logs back online?" Rage demanded.

Paranoia watched at him from the corner of his eye, only to glimpse the tremor in his hands. He nodded. Righteous anger— _protective_ anger—repackaged itself with the Unknowns after the first time Thomas pushed a bully who made one of his friends cry and got detention.

Paranoia stopped dead. Wait, did Rage blame him? Did he think Remus' state was his fault because he'd asked that _stupid_ question? It _was_ his fault, wasn't it? If he hadn't planted the seed in Remus' mind, he never would have spiraled. If he hadn't spiraled, he would still be dangling from aerial intestines right now. Oh God. Rage was going to kill Paranoia, wasn't he?

Deceit growled. " _More_ than enough," he snarled. "It's happening again."

Paranoia tensed. "What? What do you mean?"

Deceit glanced at him, and Paranoia's exhale caught in his throat. He waited for Deceit to call him out—expose him, sic Rage on him, banish him topside, even though the Knowns would never accept him, either.

But then he snapped his fingers and a small china set appeared in front of him, complete with a teacup painted with the Tree of Knowledge. His favorite. If he'd pulled out the comfort dishware already, things must be bad.

"The new Side," Deceit said.

Paranoia's vision wobbled. If he didn't breathe, he'd pass out. Why did he even need to breathe? They weren't _real_. Who imposed normal oxygen requirements on them?

"I'm not sure they even know what they're _doing_ ," Deceit continued, "but every time I stop micromanaging Thomas' abstract thoughts, he spirals. Even Logic and Morality aren't enough to overpower their influence, and the Known Creativity is currently powerless."

Rage cracked his knuckles. "Where is this motherfucker? They topside?"

Deceit shook his head. "Thomas doesn't understand what's happening to him. Logic is trying to name the Side, which stands a reasonable chance of making them Known, but until then, they belong to the Subconscious."

"Then they're hiding somewhere," Paranoia blurted past the rogue tangle in his chest. The other two faltered, eyeing him strangely, and he remembered his title too late. "Probably spying on us, learning our weaknesses. Trying to overthrow us, find a way to take us out." He narrowed his eyes and looked around the room, raising his machete in front of his face.

That seemed to reassure Rage, but Deceit's contemplative gaze never wavered from Paranoia. His eyes squinted just slightly at him, the faintest wrinkle in his brow. He sipped from his comfort teacup and rested his hooked cane across his lap, petting the snake head morphing out of the tip like a loved pet.

Paranoia held his gaze and struggled not to show fear.

"That's definitely _not_ a possibility," Deceit said carefully. "We absolutely _shouldn't_ search the Subconscious in case there's a rogue Side causing trouble. Then again, there _isn't_ any chance at all that this could be an evolution, and a preexisting Side Changed, or they're somewhere in Limbo like you were." Paranoia's mind flashed back to an alcove stuffed with journal entries and stuffed animals and bedding. "That is _not_ a possibility that we in any way should consider."

"A Change?" Rage demanded. "This late in Thomas' development?"

"It _doesn't_ make any more sense than a new Side appearing."

Rage summoned a club to his hand. Paranoia almost screamed. "I'll pound the little shit into paste for this," Rage snarled. " _No one_ fucks with Thomas."

Paranoia stared at him. After a moment, it dawned on him he couldn't move—worse yet, he couldn't _breathe_. He was paralyzed. Rage could attack him, and he wouldn't even be able to run.

"Yes," Deceit hummed. "Your barbarian tactics are _always_ the solution, Rage. Why don't you check upstairs? Paranoia and I will focus our efforts down here."

Paranoia almost fainted. Could he faint? He kind of hoped so. Maybe then, he'd stop hurting Thomas.

Rage stalked off, then paused at the stairwell. "Hey, Paranoia!" he called. "If you find this cocky fuck, cut him into little pieces for me." He stomped up the stairs.

Paranoia turned to Deceit and struggled to speak. No sound came out.

"You _shouldn't_ start over there," Deceit told him, gesturing to the right. "I _won't_ start on this side."

Paranoia stared at him.

Deceit tilted his head, something intense toiling in his eyes. "Paranoia? Is there something you don't want to tell me?" The lack of prominent emphasis on any of his words made it hard to tell if he meant the opposite or not. Either could apply.

Paranoia felt lightheaded. He swayed on his feet—until it all floated away from him on a fluffy cloud, and his mind cleared, roaring with delirious silence.

"No," he heard his voice tell Deceit dully. "There's nothing."

* * *

**Hours later, Paranoia sat on his bed, staring at the wall. Ever since Deceit asked him that question, Paranoia had been half-awake, watching through a film while an exhausted Thomas finished his school day and completed his homework. The most he had done was remind him to keep his head down around Bobby Drake and keep a strong lookout jogging across the school parking lot to his mother's car.**

**Paranoia was _there_. It wasn't like when Remus exhausted himself past his capacities and shut down like a machine. He didn't do _anything_ ; just stayed in whatever position they put him in, staring sightlessly off into space like a dead body. No one knew why he didn't just disappear to his room—or disappear _altogether_ —when that happened, but it still wasn't anything like this.**

**Paranoia had methodically snapped the couch out of the way, scanning every inch of the Subconscious—each nook and cranny; around the corners; even up high in the kitchen cabinets (which would make amazing hidey-holes, some dull, recessive part of his mind had noted); even in the walls themselves—without the racing thoughts he'd started growing accustomed to. It should have been disorienting, but he just didn't care. He didn't understand, and he didn't care.**

**Paranoia had never done this. This belonged to his Changed form alone.**

**It scared him.**

But then Thomas finished his homework, dinner long-since finished, plate tucked neatly away in the dishwasher, and Paranoia was _awake_ —wide, vividly awake, and the spikes on his clothes felt like needles imbedded in his skin. He squirmed and scratched fitfully at his arms. Was this what Remus meant when he talked about bugs literally crawling under your skin? Paranoia lifted his sleeve to check. No. No suspicious mounds moving around there. It was all in his mind.

He couldn't take it anymore. He ripped off his spiky wardrobe. The next thing he knew, he had stripped and fully dressed again, this time in that nice, warm, safe, _comfy_ dark grey jacket. He pulled the hood over his head, yanking on the strings until it formed a narrow opening in front of his face. He huddled up against the wall on his bed and rocked. It settled his nerves—a little.

Something was wrong. Something was coming. The dense shadows of his room that had always offered familiarity now offered avenues of attack. He couldn't defend himself like this. What if Rage figured out he was the mysterious new Side? What if he barged in here, club raised, and killed him? Could he die? Sides could only hurt other Sides who were afraid of them—but Paranoia was terrified of _everything_ now.

No. Not Paranoia. That title felt as alien on his skin—on his _being —_ as the spiky clothes had. It just didn't _fit_. It was scratchy, covering him like a vicious, ugly red rash, or a terrible sunburn. There was no salve to alleviate the discomfort, though. He needed a title. A real, serviceable, _functional_ title that encapsulated his being, that didn't feel like—

He materialized in the living room. At first, he thought Remus had recovered enough to summon another miniature sun, because it was _bright_ —but then he realized he didn't feel any intense, deadly heat. And after that, he realized he wasn't alone.

There were four others there with him: a bubbly figure straight across from him in bright blues with what looked like a cardigan tied around his neck, a matching pair of glasses on his face to the figure to Paranoia's left. This one wore an unwrinkled black polo shirt with not a hair out of place on his head. The last two wore no glasses, like Paranoia. On his right was a flamboyant red and white pinnacle of Extra TM, complete with a tiara on the top of his head. And in front of him was—

" _Thomas_?"

Thomas' eyes snapped open and he flew back with a scream—that overlapped with the other three as they all reacted in their various ways. Polo shirt—Logic, Paranoia would bet anything—started mashing the buttons on a calculator at him like it banished evil spirits. Bright Blue—that _had_ to be Morality—summoned a plate of cookies he started flinging at everyone's faces like that would protect them. And Flamboyance—

" _Ah_!" Paranoia screamed.

" _AHHHHH_!" Roman screamed louder, waving a very sharp metal sword around with abandon.

Sword. Thomas. _**Danger**_.

" **Thomas, get down!** " Paranoia bellowed, and Thomas hit the floor with his arms over his head, whimpering. Paranoia whirled on Roman, hissing. " **Drop the sword!** "

The sword clattered to the floor. Everyone finally stopped screaming, freezing in place to stare at Paranoia. Thomas stayed on the ground for a moment, then lifted his head, peeking through his fingers.

"See!" Roman suddenly exploded. "I _told you_ he was a villain! He even made me drop the one thing I could stop his villainy with. He's _evil_!"

"Now, now, kiddo, that isn't very nice," Morality chided, turning to Paranoia. He suddenly threw his arms wide and squealed. "Welcome to the family, kiddo! I'm Morality!" He stabbed his own chest with his thumb like a cartoon character.

Paranoia recoiled. "Uh…"

"Clearly, what we need to focus on right now is solving the mystery of what, exactly, this new force on Thomas' life is," Logic interjected, only to twirl around and—reappear in an elaborate Sherlock Holmes outfit? There was nothing in the world less imposing than a scrawny middle-schooler dressed like a Victorian-era detective. Who did he think he was impressing?

"Why waste time with _that_ when we can just get rid of him?" Roman bellowed. "Give me three seconds and I'll have this creep drowning in a swamp." He started shoving up his sleeves. Paranoia braced to flee.

" _That's enough_! Both of you!" Morality threw his arms out and they stretched long in either direction until he had both Roman and Logic by the ears.

Thomas doubled over to gag violently. Paranoia didn't see what the problem was. That was cartoonish when compared to what Remus did every day.

"Now be _nice_!" Morality ordered. "This is a new member of our family, and I expect you to act like it! Now apologize!"

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow—" Logic chanted, listing permanently to the side to try to alleviate the pain in his ear. Not that Paranoia understood. How could they feel pain? How could _he_ feel his heart rate picking up in his chest? None of this imaginary malarkey made any sense.

Roman was a less consistent sufferer. "Pa—Padr— _Padre_ , please—ow!—Padre, just—"

" _Apologize_ ," Morality stressed, and Paranoia leaned back. Okay. Maybe Rage hadn't taken on _all_ the scary protective qualities.

Wait. Scary protective qualities? For _Paranoia_? That didn't make sense.

"Fine!" Roman screeched. "Fine, I'll apologize! Just— _ow_!" Morality released him. He pushed to his full height again, dusting off his amateur prince uniform. He glared hatefully at Paranoia. Paranoia glared back. "I'm… _sorry_. Whoever you are."

Logic was still chanting.

"What's wrong, Logic?" Morality asked. "Don't you _ear_ apologize?"

Logic groaned deeply. Paranoia fought the urge to laugh. Comedy this golden was a rare sight. He wanted to enjoy it while it lasted— _without_ drawing attention to himself and ruining it.

"All right! All right! _Mercy_ , you duplicitous altruist!" Logic cried, and Morality let him go. Both his arms shot back to their normal lengths at his sides. Thomas stopped gagging.

Logic smoothed out his polo shirt and looked at Paranoia. "It has come to my attention that my previous treatment of you may have been unreasonably unkind," he said, like every word caused him physical pain. "I implore you to consider what behaviors of yours might have driven me to—"

" _Logic_ ," Morality hissed.

"I'm sorry!" Logic summarized with a squeak.

Paranoia looked around the room. He tried, very hard, to understand what on Earth had just happened. He couldn't.

Morality beamed at him. "You heard them, kiddo. We all just got off on the wrong foot. That over there is Logic, and this dashing prince is Creativity."

Logic glared and Roman sneered at him.

"Dashing is one word for it," Paranoia snarled at Roman.

"And _what_ is that supposed to mean, Frollo Cups?"

" _Guys_!" Thomas had recovered from Paranoia's sudden appearance and the stretchy arm bit at last, and he was red-faced and fuming.

Paranoia stopped. Wait. If Thomas was angry, that meant Rage could be listening.

"Can you all stop talking over me for three seconds? I'm kinda freaking out over here!"

"Oh!" Morality slapped a hand over his mouth. Paranoia flashed back to Deceit, but it didn't appear involuntary. That didn't relieve his nerves much. "Thomas, I'm so sorry! We hadn't meant to leave you behind like that. Are you okay? Do you want cookies? You should go get—"

"You don't want to do that, Thomas," Paranoia immediately told him. "What if Mom finds you sneaking a cookie and gets angry? Do you _really_ want to disappoint her?"

Thomas' eyes flew wide.

"Then we'd ask permission, silly!" Morality giggled and waved at him. "That's the right thing to do, anyway. See! You'll fit right i—"

"But what if you ask her for a cookie, and she's disappointed in you because you have too many sweets? What if the cookie makes you fat? Do you want to be fat, Thomas? Do you want all those kids at school to have something _else_ to tease you about?"

"No!" Thomas cried.

"Logically speaking," Logic cut in, "a single cookie does not have a high enough caloric count to cause significant weight gain, and at this age, Thomas' metabolism is still high enough that he won't suffer any ill effects."

"And fat-shaming is _evil_!" Roman burst in. "Like I said! Villain!" Paranoia recoiled from his accusing finger.

"What? No! That's not what I said! I said—"

"Actually, that's exactly what you said." Morality's face had crumpled up. Paranoia suddenly wanted to cry. Was Morality _disappointed in him_? "That was a very bad thing you said just now. You need to apologize to Thomas."

But Paranoia couldn't. He aggressively shook his head. "It's _true_! All those kids will treat you terribly and they'll call you names, and you'll never want to go back to school again and you'll work at fast food places for your whole life!"

Thomas' eyes shined. "Really?"

" _Yes_! I'm trying to help you, Thomas. You have to listen to—"

"Thomas, I think I know what your new Side is," Logic interrupted.

Everyone stopped and faced him. "What?" they chorused.

Even Paranoia couldn't remember what he'd been doing before that moment. Could Logic really tell him what he had become?

Logic started ticking off fingers. "Obsessive, cyclical and negative thoughts about how others will perceive and/or treat you; feelings of complete overwhelm in crowded places; preoccupation with things you already know are in order; and all of these are in some way associated with feelings of fear. Is that correct?"

"I…I mean, yeah." Thomas glanced at Paranoia—no, _not_ Paranoia; something else—as if to check.

The formerly Unknown Side could only stare at Logic, heart racing.

Logic nodded stiffly. "Thomas, I would like you to meet your Anxiety."

Everything somehow flipped over and settled into place at once. For a moment, he had no idea how Thomas had taken the revelation, because this was it. This was what he was now. _This_ was how he could help Thomas. Not by compelling him to obsess over little terrors unlikely to ever happen. Not as a simple base instinct that had no specificity, no _reasoning_ behind how it functioned, what it did.

He was Anxiety. He was _Anxiety_.

But that was where the good feelings ended.

"Anxiety?" Thomas echoed. "But that's…that's…that's—"

"Bad?" Morality suggested, favoring Paranoia with an apologetic look.

"Evil!" Roman exclaimed.

" _Crazy_ ," Thomas whined, and Anxiety felt like one of Remus' wrecking balls had just smashed into him. He stared at his center in horror.

"Inefficient," Logic said, like that decided everyone's sentiments on it. "Thomas, it is in your best interest to—in Creativity's words—'banish' this Side from your mind. It can only hinder you."

"What?"

Had that come from Anxiety?

Thomas couldn't get rid of him, could he? Once a Side was made, it didn't go away—not anymore, at least. His psyche had cemented. He had all the Sides he was ever going to have. That would stay a _constant number_. It had to. Right? They couldn't just get rid of him. He couldn't just cease to exist. He couldn't. He _couldn't_.

Right?

Thomas scowled at him. "You made school _a living hell_ today," Thomas spat. "I got no sleep, and then all day, I was terrified of everything! I couldn't focus in any of my classes. Logic wouldn't stop screaming at me the whole time. I have a _headache_ because of you!"

Logic beamed. "There we go, Thomas. A rational list." 

"Oh, not so fast, Pocket Protector!" Roman declared, pointing at him. "I was the first one to suggest banishment! _I'll_ be the Side in charge of this one."

"I'm going to send you somewhere dark and empty and barren and awful," Thomas told Anxiety.

Anxiety trembled. He hadn't removed his hood, he realized. No one could see him cry. Since when did he cry?

"I'm going to send you somewhere you deserve, because you're bad, and you hurt me, and I don't need you."

"Thom—Thomas, please—"

" _I don't need you_ ," Thomas stressed. His hands quaked and his eyes watered. "You need to leave. No. You're _going_ to leave. You're going to go away, and you'll never come back, because I. Don't. Need. You."

If Anxiety had paused for the briefest moment—if he had sniffed the air, outstretched a finger to sense around himself, to question the suffocating atmosphere—he might have noticed the faintest _hint_ of Deceit's influence.

As it was, he just sunk out into the Subconscious, collapsed on his floor, and broke down sobbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summarized bold text: Paranoia is dissociated while looking out for Thomas and helping Deceit search the Subconscious for the "new Side."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anxiety continues to mature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Remus is Remus with disturbing ideas like Thomas' mother losing her life in a brutal motor vehicle accident and walking in on an elderly family member in the shower; brief unfounded fear that a beloved pet will be harmed

"What will it take to show that life's not what it seems?" ~ "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)" by _My Chemical Romance_

* * *

* * *

ANXIETY DIDN'T FADE.

He had incomplete, fragmented memories of the dozens of Unknowns that used to permeate the Subconscious. Most of them Faded as stronger Sides evolved to take over their functions. He couldn't even remember most of their titles, which maybe saddened and terrified him the most. What memories he could recall suggested Fading was slow, quiet, and tragic. He didn't know if it was painful.

But after enough days curled up in his room, waiting for the only bizarre death a Side could have, Anxiety realized it wasn't going to happen. Thomas hadn't banished Anxiety like he said—he still needed him.

As days turned into weeks turned into years, Anxiety only blossomed. Thomas trudged through the remainder of Junior High, struggling through feelings of inferiority and fear. Deceit and Anxiety warred every day—one, wanting to submerge Thomas in a reassuring pool of denial; the other, panicking about what it meant—over his feelings for other boys. Doing constant battle with the strongest Unknown strengthened Anxiety more than he ever could have imagined before the Change. Instead of the occasional paranoid shriek, he maintained an unbreaking influence over Thomas' life, protecting him every day from everything. He rarely tired, although he slept when Thomas did most days.

Sometimes, though, his influence waned and Anxiety receded to a distant shore on the coattails of Thomas' mind, little more than a spectator. Attentive enough to snap back if anything went awry, but his anxious spirals and perpetual social fears took a hit. Those days usually coincided with feelings of euphoria in Thomas—an amazing opportunity at his church or school for a role, praise earned from a creative venture, an anticipated date with a friend.

Most often, Anxiety lived between extremes: neither overwhelming nor weak, nudging rather than manhandling Thomas. He obsessed over Thomas' assignments, tag-teaming Logic in maintaining studies. Those days, Thomas completed the most work the most efficiently, but Anxiety doubted that had anything to do with him.

Simultaneously with Anxiety's rise in power, Thomas' passions—his Creativity—evolved from childish whimsy to something more dedicated, more convicted. Roman had always been several levels too extra, but now, Remus' ideas took on new life, with entire stories dreamed up in the grotesque imaginings. He matured into something more complicated than intrusive thoughts; bit by bit, Remus took on Thomas' capacity for creative conflict.

Roman, of course, took credit for every bold curveball Remus threw into a story, the non-rat bastard. Remus adapted, like he always did, and—in a bout of deranged _genius—_ elected Anxiety his creative partner.

"Hey, Spiky!" Remus exploded, popping into Anxiety's room without warning. He threw out a dense cloud of darkness in a blind panic, shifting into his Paranoid form before it cleared and Remus discovered the truth. "I wrote a song about all the ways Thomas could watch his friends die hideous deaths!"

Anxiety spent the next seven hours after Remus finished his showstopping number on his bed, rocking back and forth, muttering, and ordering Thomas to call every single one of his friends while praying for each of them. A lot.

"Spi- _key_!" Remus belted flawlessly through the shield of Anxiety's door as he donned his disguise again. It flew open a split second later. "I just finished a monologue for when Thomas walks in on his Aunt Patty naked and carves his eyes out! Just like Oedipus!"

Anxiety scrubbed at his eyes with soap for hours after that and Thomas lived in terror of the bathroom during family get-togethers for _years_ to come.

Remus somehow popped up in Anxiety's room while he was distracted to flake out half-naked on his bed with a painted easel of Thomas' mother's broken body on the asphalt by the side of the road. "You like it? I think I might've gone a little heavy on the black. Do you think it overpowers the blood?"

For the first time, Deceit and Anxiety worked in unison; Thomas pretended to be sick as a dog to entice his mother to stay home from work to take care of him. The nightmare never came to pass. Logic protested it never could have in the first place, but Morality and the Known Creativity were less convinced.

Thomas started high school. His fears about his sexuality ebbed and flowed—growing in accordance to certain stimuli, shrinking with reassurances from the world at large that how he felt was perfectly okay. Thomas' sexuality slipped out of Deceit's control, now an accepted part of who he was— _privately_. Anxiety had a firm grasp on it, still. It would be a long time before he released that.

Everyone knew what they did to gay people. That could _never_ happen to Thomas.

Thomas met a friend then—Joan. They asked to be called "they/them," because they didn't feel like any particular gender the way Thomas felt like a guy and his mother felt like a girl. Logic had to adjust to that one, but Morality encouraged Thomas' Conscious Mind—and therefore, also his _Subconscious_ , not that there had been too many growing pains there—to flex and expand their horizons to support their friend.

Anxiety always calmed down when Thomas and Joan hung out, just the two of them. He didn't obsess over every little inevitability. Joan quieted the voices in Thomas' mind just by _being there_. The few times Anxiety _did_ rear his ugly head when they hung out was when Thomas, inevitably, slipped up and mis-gendered them, and then Anxiety _flipped his shit_.

Surprisingly, none of the Knowns blamed him for that one; even Logan lost his cool a little at those times.

The best part about Joan, though, was the way they eyed Thomas when he spiraled over a test, or reminded him to breathe when he let the worst-case scenarios get away from him—when Anxiety commandeered his life. They talked about their struggles in social situations, how they relied on breathing exercises to cope with overwhelming stimuli, how deadlines freaked them out and twisted their brain up in knots. Days like that, Anxiety couldn't help but wish Joan could see him, too; maybe then, Thomas would believe him when he said he wanted to protect him.

Then the unimaginable happened.

"Hey, Thomas," Joan started, taking a bite of their sandwich at lunch. "You anxious over Brewer's test, too?"

Anxiety kicked in and screamed at Thomas. " **You idiot!** " he roared. " **They'll think you're copying them! Fix this because you lose them!** "

"What?" Thomas laughed awkwardly, blowing a raspberry and waving his spoon, flinging yogurt across the table by accident. He winced. "Sorry, Talyn. I mean…no! No, why would you think that? I don't get anxious." Thomas chuckled nervously. Anxiety watched the peanut gallery in the back of his mind collectively face-palm. "That's…crazy. Wait! No, I don't mean—"

"Thomas, relax," Joan said. "And yeah, you _do_ get anxious. I see you do it all the time. It's chill, man. You don't have to have an anxiety disorder to _have_ anxiety. It's a natural thing."

Well…shit.

* * *

That afternoon, Anxiety felt a familiar yet still utterly foreign tug on his gut. He popped in front of his center without resistance, hands buried deep in his pockets, forcing himself to maintain eye contact with Thomas. Three additional sets of eyes blazed into him from all Sides, but he focused just on the man of the hour instead of their judgment.

"So," Thomas began, "you still exist."

Anxiety didn't know if Thomas wanted an apology or not. He could feel the nervous sweat on his palms soaking his pockets. His throat was dry. The last time he'd been here, they called him a bad guy and banished him. For all he knew, he'd only been summoned now so Thomas could finish the job.

He forced indifference and said, "That a problem?"

"Yes," Logic and Creativity told him in unison, even as they favored each other with a dark glare.

"Of course not!" Morality chirped from across the room. "I mean, you can definitely be a bit of a downer, kiddo, but you can always work on that! We'll all be a fam- _I-L-Y._ " He spelled out the last and looked around. "Eh? Eh? Like text talk?"

"Oh, sweet Newton, is there something _else_ I have to learn?" Logic moaned.

"I-L-Y is short for I Love You, Dr. New-Dumb."

Logic choked like he'd just swallowed a live animal.

"Pretty sure you're projecting there, Princey," Anxiety grumbled, hiding his hands in his pockets.

"What was that, My Chemically Imbalanced Romance?"

Another crazy crack? Well, Anxiety supposed it wasn't inaccurate. "You heard me. Don't go taking your own insecurities out on Logic. He's the least clueless of the three of you."

Logic adjusted his glasses. "That was…thank you, Anxiety."

Anxiety didn't understand why, but hearing his title struck a little funny, scraping against him on its way past. He shook it off and said, "I mean, you're still clueless, but less."

Logic glared. "I take it back."

"Well, I don't need you right now," Thomas told him. "So, you can just…you know…go away." He waved his hand dismissively.

Anxiety saluted him and sunk out.

* * *

Only to go blind.

"AH!" He shielded his eyes from the offensive glare, stumbling back into a fluffy bit of furniture he didn't have the wherewithal to name while his eyes burned like Creativity had set them on fire. Tears poured down his cheeks. "Dammit, Remus! Warn a Side before you build a second sun!"

Anxiety waited to hear the maniacal laugh-track known as Remus, but it never came and his eyes stopped burning quite as fiercely. He parted his fingers, permitting a sliver of light through their obstruction, and then a little more and a little more until his hand returned to his pocket, where it belonged, and he could see the culprit of his blindness in all its hazy, disorienting glory.

He didn't just _notice_ the colors first—they leapt up and roundhouse-kicked him across the face. It was an oversaturated hell-scape of pastels and neon, each color competing for his intention with murderous gusto. The air sparkled, just a little, and twinkle lights hung everywhere they could hang (and several places that, logically, they couldn't). A modest bookshelf rose in the corner by a nice, tame armchair, and the walls disappeared under a blanket of picture frames, each with Morality and Creativity posing in some asinine way while Logic tried to sneak out of the shoot.

At least that answered where Anxiety had ended up: the Conscious Mind, the hub for every goody-two-shoes, ignoramus, bullshit call the Knowns made. Joy.

He spied a stack of duplicate movies on an entertainment center next to a flat-screen television, most of them _Disney_. Curiosity got the better of him and he flipped through, finding them organized by release date. Anxiety browsed the 1980's section until he struck gold: _The Black Cauldron_ , starring Grant Bardsley and Susan Sheridan.

He considered it. The movie couldn't be an exact copy, not when it had been created based on Thomas' memories of it. Logic and Creativity must have worked together to mimic the closest to the real thing they could, and that made sense, with Creativity's perpetual hard-on for the company. Anxiety could care less about most of them, but he enjoyed the darker flare of _The Black Cauldron_ , the divergence from traditional _Disney._ Roman would probably re-watch the classics, Renaissance, and new era films back to back a million times before he ever noticed an underrated gem like this had gone missing. He might not even care when he did.

Still, it was risky. And Anxiety wasn't a risk-taker—not anymore.

"You can borrow that if you want, kiddo!"

Anxiety screamed and whirled on Morality, wielding the DVD like a weapon while missing his machete a _lot_.

Morality just thrust a plate of cookies at him. What was it with him and the cookies?

Anxiety stared at him for a while, looked down at the plate, looked back at him.

Was this a trick? If he accepted a cookie, would Morality be mad? If he _didn't_ accept one, would he _still_ be mad? What if it was a lose-lose situation? He should get out. He should leave before anything bad could happen to him—to _Thomas_.

He took a cookie.

Morality beamed and set the plate down. "I know things haven't been great for you, getting situated with us all, settling in with the family," he told him. "I'm really sorry about how the others are treating you. I swear, Thomas is usually so much nicer. I think it's just that—"

"I scare him."

Anxiety didn't ask or feel shame when he said it, despite Morality's choked alarm. He knew what he was. Well…kind of. Even "Anxiety" smarted against his skin some; had for about a year now. Maybe even longer. Anything was better than Paranoia, but it still didn't sum him up. He didn't like to think about it.

Morality recovered and winced. "Well…yeah. You're a little scary, kiddo. But that's always a thing you can work on. And we can help you!"

"You realize I'm Anxiety, right?" Why was it so easy to talk to Morality? He couldn't even talk to Remus like this anymore; he could barely talk to anyone back home, always so consumed by his charade, buying time while he figured out solutions he knew deep down would never work. "If I stop scaring Thomas, I stop existing."

Morality froze. His eyes watered. "What?"

Anxiety's gut twisted and he panicked, abandoning the cookie. "Oh! Oh, no, please don't—oh no. I didn't mean to make you cry. Please don't cry. You can't cry. You're, like—"

Morality sniffled, and Anxiety's brain went into overdrive searching for a fix. He doubted upsetting Thomas' emotional center did anything good for their center, and aside from the logistics of it, Morality was adorable. Anxiety _really_ didn't want to see him cry. He didn't think he could survive it.

Then it hit him. "What happened to the guy who sued over his missing luggage?" Anxiety blurted.

Morality stopped and sniffed. "What?"

"He lost his case." Despite himself, Anxiety cracked a smile—and Morality _beamed_.

"Oh! Oh! What do you call a cat that throws the most expensive parties?" Anxiety fought back a smile. "The Great _Cats_ by!"

"Logic must love that one," Anxiety managed between laughs.

Morality pouted. "Ah, no. Logan isn't really one for puns. He kinda hates them." He brightened again. "But you are! I told you you'd fit right in."

Anxiety frowned. "What did you just call him?"

"Call who? Call you?"

"No. Logic. You said—did you say _Logan_?"

Morality tilted his head. "Well…yeah. What, you think _all_ he is is Logic? He's gotta have a name to sum it up with, kiddo. Like mine's Patton and Creativity's is Roman. What's yours?"

Anxiety stared.

"What?" Morality asked, worried.

"Just…I mean, I kinda assumed, _sure_ , the Creativities are gonna have names because we gotta tell them apart _somehow_ , but—"

"Hold on a second, kiddo." Something had changed about Morality's—no, _Patton's_ —tone that time. It was shaky, uneasy. Anxiety swelled with Patton's fear. "Did you just…did you just say the Creativi _ties_? As in…two of them?"

Instantly, Anxiety knew he'd messed up. He started backing away. "What? No. That's not—" Wait. That was a lie. That was a boldfaced lie. He just summoned Deceit. Was he a complete _idiot_?

"Shush! Shush, it's okay!" Patton steadied him. "It's okay. I'm not mad at you. Okay? I get it. You don't have to lie. Please _don't_ lie." That came out edged with fear again. "We chased you away like a bunch of bullies and you went the only place you thought was safe for you, but…you've gotta believe me, kiddo, that is _not_ somewhere you wanna go. Those guys down there?"

Anxiety frowned. They weren't _down_ anywhere. They were adjacent to the Conscious Mind, just… _Un_ -Conscious.

"They are _bad_. I don't want them…" Patton shuddered. "You're a good kiddo. I'd hate to see you get misled by things like that."

Things. Deceit, Remus and Rage were _things_? They were his _family_. How could Patton talk about them like this? "They accepted me when no one else would," Anxiety growled. "Does that sound so bad to you?"

Patton's eyes widened. "No! No, of course not! No, I'm _so glad_ you had somewhere to go when we weren't an option, and I'm so, so, so, so, _so_ sorry you couldn't just come to us before. We can overreact sometimes, trying to protect Thomas, is all."

"Like _I_ don't want to protect Thomas?" Anxiety didn't care as much if Patton cried now.

"Of course, you do!" Patton turned desperate. "Just…sometimes, people can do nice things for us— _good_ things—but that doesn't always mean they're good people." It was the type of brutal truth Anxiety would have expected to hear from Deceit, not his moral antithesis. He stared. "They're like that, kiddo. They're mean and…if they had their way, they'd make Thomas a bad person, and we can't let them do that. Okay? You gotta help us. You gotta help us protect him from them. I know you can do it. You look like a fighter to me—like, a _good_ fighter. A hero!"

Anxiety stepped back. "Oh, I'm a _hero_ now, am I?" he spat. "Funny, because a couple years ago, I was _bad_. Isn't that what you called me, _Patton_? A _bad guy_? You know, like my _friends_?"

"I was wrong!" The tears were back, and Anxiety couldn't bring himself to care. "We were all wrong. We wanna make it better, but please, we can't do that if you go back to them. Please. Stay."

His words ached with so much sincerity, Anxiety almost felt bad for him. "If you were wrong about me," he said quietly, "why can't you be wrong about them, too?"

He sunk out.

* * *

Deceit waited for Anxiety in his room, sitting on his bed with Charlotte's hourglass body in his palm, running his finger down the swell of her back.

Anxiety screamed. "Don't!" He strangled the pleas for mercy in his throat. Deceit didn't respond to emotional excess; he never had. If Anxiety wanted to save Charlotte, he had to keep calm. Anxiety held Deceit's heterochromatic gaze, shaking. "Don't hurt her." His voice hitched in terror. "Please. Do whatever you want to me, just don't—"

"Oh, _don't_ relax, Anxiety," Deceit said.

Anxiety watched, frozen, as he stood, striding over to Anxiety's pride and joy: his terrarium, filled with three other arachnids who scrabbled at the glass when they sensed their father's distress. Anxiety pulse thundered in his neck as Deceit leaned over the box's open lid and set Charlotte down safely. Aragog bit him on the hand, anyway.

Stupid, brave, wonderful Aragog. Anxiety waited for the orange glare and the outburst; it never came. Deceit pulled away from the terrarium, elongating his (short) spine while dusting off his gloves. He faced Anxiety.

"I certainly _haven't_ known you were the new Side this entire time, and I _didn't_ have any faith you'd get things under control—or reveal yourself to Thomas—" Anxiety didn't miss the edge on that. "—without any trouble."

"You're…not mad?" He couldn't believe his luck—or the trap he had to be stepping into.

"Of course not," Deceit said. Wait, was he still speaking in opposites? Deceit faced him and tugged his gloves over his hands. To strangle him? To dispose of his body? "You performed exactly the job you were supposed to in your Changed role—you hid."

 _Like a coward_.

Anxiety recoiled from the unspoken insult, the unaddressed insinuation. He had been many things as Paranoia, but cowardly wasn't one of them.

"What happens now?" Anxiety whispered.

Deceit studied the tips of his gloves. "Well, I concoct a masterful lie that you found the new Side," he said, like that was obvious. "You fought them, and in the ensuing struggle, there happened to be a… _mix-up_ , shall we say? You melded with them into a twisted amalgamation of Anxiety, Fear, and Paranoia."

Anxiety didn't understand why, but that resonated with him. As little sense as it made, something about Deceit's lie felt closer to the truth than anything Anxiety had thought of, himself.

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Deceit asked. His eyes flashed with edged innocence—not like Patton's, all genuine, scintillating, innocuous and ignorant. It disguised the meaner truth: that Deceit brought Paranoia—and Anxiety—into the fold, and he could get rid of him.

Permanently.

Anxiety's heart raced. "Nothing," he lied, knowing what Deceit wanted to hear. "I didn't mean anything. Let's just get this over with."

* * *

Revealing his Changed form to the others went better than expected. Remus asked him for all the gory details about how Paranoia and Anxiety became one entity, and his eyes glittered with a jealous sort of fascination—Anxiety had done the exact opposite of what he and his brother had done, after all. Allegedly.

Rage was less _fascinated_ and more _pissed_ , demanding to know if their Paranoia was just gone now, _murdered_ by this _thing_. Anxiety couldn't breathe the entire time Deceit pacified him, explaining that this _was_ Paranoia, just…different.

"He looks kinda normal," Remus pointed out suddenly, poking under Anxiety's eyes. He smeared something there. Anxiety didn't want to know. He leaned away from Remus, trying not to show his fear on his face. He knew for a fact anything Remus did to him would stick now. "Like someone Roman would like."

"Roman hates me, actually." The words spilled from his mouth before he could stop them. He clamped a hand over his mouth—without Deceit's influence. He didn't dare take a breath, waiting for the others to respond.

"What—?" Anxiety didn't think Rage had sounded more dangerous in his entire life. "—does _that_ mean?" He vibrated with restrained rage.

Anxiety cowered. "I…" Like a fool, he turned to Deceit for help—and remarkably, received it.

"Thomas met the other Anxiety some time ago," Deceit said. "He immediately rejected him. By the time Paranoia found him and fused with him, Thomas had decided he had to at least acknowledge his Anxiety's existence. He summoned him."

Remus and Rage stared at him in awe. They exchanged a look, then returned their combined gazes to him.

"You _met Thomas_?" Anxiety _knew_ Remus had never sounded so soft before. "What was he like? Do you think he'd like us?"

"Do you think I can get him to kick Victor Greenie's ass for what he said to Joan?"

"What does he think of my ideas?"

"Can I get him to _storm out_ of Ms. Lewis' class before he has a mental breakdown from how she treats him?"

"Does Roman miss me?"

Remus would call what followed "everyone's assholes squeezing shut," or something else even more gross and nauseating than that. Anxiety couldn't emulate his unique brand of TMI, especially not when Remus stood there, frozen under the disbelieving stares of his colleagues.

He sunk out without a word.

Deceit sighed.

Anxiety took a deep breath and looked at Rage. "Pat—" He caught himself. He couldn't _already_ be adapting to those names…could he? " _Morality_ is pretty much in charge there, and he kinda thinks we're all…evil?"

Rage recovered enough to scoff. "Fucking figures. Nothing's ever good enough for perfect, precious _Daddy_." Anxiety frowned. He couldn't be sure, but he could have sworn there was something _darker_ in his tone—almost like he had a very personal vendetta against Thomas' Morality. "Anybody needs me, I'm ripping apart effigies of Thomas' past bullies."

And with that, Rage disappeared.

"You _didn't_ lie again," Deceit whispered after a beat of silence.

Anxiety faltered. "Well…no. Not really. You did all the—Deceit?"

"Morality doesn't think you're evil," he said, staring at him, and then he was gone, too. Anxiety never got the chance to ask him if he'd missed the inflection that time, and if they were still speaking in opposites—if they had ever stopped.

Would he ever know for sure?

Later that night, Anxiety couldn't help but linger on what Patton had said, when they talked in the Conscious Mind. _"What, you think_ all _he is is Logic? He's gotta have a name to sum it up with, kiddo."_

And then Deceit, back in his room. _"You melded with them into a twisted amalgamation of Anxiety, Fear, and Paranoia."_

Whether Deceit knew it or not, that had been the complete, unfettered truth. He could still feel Paranoia and Fear, toiling somewhere deep inside him—an intrinsic part of his being, neglected by the title of "Anxiety." He hadn't just Changed; he'd evolved, and he became more than the sum of his parts. His title smarted angrily against his skin when he heard it; had for some time, and now, he knew why. He needed more.

He needed a name.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anxiety searches for a name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: PTSD-like episode, mentions of depression, discussion of "Dante's Inferno," some content Christian readers might find offensive; if so, I'm sorry, and I'm willing to edit the content if it's upsetting

"'Cuz you're the last of a dying breed; / write our names in the wet concrete." ~ "The Last of the Real Ones" by _Fall Out Boy_

* * *

* * *

IT WASN'T ANXIETY'S JOB TO SEEK KNOWLEDGE; compelling Thomas to use valuable time to search "names that mean to protect" on the internet after he finished homework didn't come naturally to him. If he were Logic, or even Creativity, he could pull it off.

Wait. _Creativity_.

"Hey, Remus!" Anxiety called, jogging down the hallway to catch his bouncy friend before he could vanish into his room—and therefore the interminable bounds of the Imagination.

Remus brightened when he saw him. Two bright green lights over his nipples flared to life. He also wore a codpiece. Anxiety cringed as subtly as he could. It's wasn't Remus' fault he had adopted _all_ of Thomas' repressed sexual inclinations. Roman needed to lay off the _Disney_ unless he wanted Thomas to go nuts.

 _He developed you, didn't he?_ a dark little voice murmured in Anxiety's mind. _I think that ship has sailed._

Anxiety shook it off. That voice spoke up more and more often nowadays; he couldn't claim to understand it. It wasn't like the spirals that sent him into panic attacks, or the obsessive thoughts that tormented Thomas about his friends' opinions and well-being. It didn't belong.

"Spi—I mean, Anxiety!" Remus was still adjusting to the Change. "You wanna find out how many ways Thomas can die a grisly, terrifying death on stage?"

Anxiety blinked harshly. He was pretty sure, if he found out _that_ number, Thomas would never step foot on a stage again. "Uh…I would, seriously, but…"

Remus' face fell. "You're no fun anymore."

Anxiety felt that land like a wrecking ball. He sucked in a breath. "I…Remus, I'm sorry. I want to hang out with you more, but—"

"But I'm scary, right?" Remus' lips were pressed thin. "You think I'm good for nothing but trouble like the Knowns, don't you?" His eyes shined.

Anxiety's heart constricted. Creativity wasn't _just_ Creativity; it was also Thomas' ego—something that had, unlike everything else, split more or less even. And Thomas had a very, very delicate ego.

"That's not true," Anxiety insisted. "Seriously. Roman can't come up with anything that isn't covered in glitter."

Remus' eyes lit up. "Glitter is really sharp. Did you know that? What would happen if we replaced a bunch of glitter with tiny colored shards of glass and exploded it all over the stage at Thomas' next performance? It would be _so bloody_."

Great. Now Anxiety was going to be terrified of _glitter_. "See?" Anxiety told him with what he hoped wasn't too thin of a smile. "Roman would never come up with something like that. That's the stuff you need for a good story. He doesn't have the guts—"

" _Literally_!" Remus squealed. "What if he _literally_ didn't have any guts?"

"That's the spirit." Anxiety clapped him on the shoulder. His smile wasn't altogether that forced.

Anxiety's bond with Remus hadn't suffered as much as his bonds with the others; with Rage, whose explosive personality sent him scrambling on the retreat if he so much as twitched, and Deceit, who Anxiety couldn't shake the fear played him like a fiddle with every word he spoke.

"Roman doesn't have the guts to spice things up," Anxiety continued. "He's too vanilla. He's obsessed with _Disney_ , but he never pays attention to how they get to the happily-ever-after. You do."

"What if Snow White _actually_ died?" Remus babbled. "And then she came back as a zombie, and she rose when the Prince tried to kiss her and ate his face?"

Anxiety blinked. That sounded like the premise to a weird movie he would watch—you know, from between his fingers, because he had _no_ stomach anymore. "Write the one down," he said.

Remus' face fell. "Thomas will never see it."

Anxiety hesitated. "Maybe he will, someday." An idea sparked. "And you should name the characters, too. I mean, at least the Prince. I don't think he got a name in the story."

Remus tilted his head, thinking. "Cocksucker!"

Anxiety cracked up. "Or something with a little more…subtlety. You're more refined than your brother, Remus; they just don't give you any credit because you crank it up to one-hundred right off the bat."

Remus pouted. "You think so?"

"You can't really help it, I know," Anxiety said. "But you can kinda…you and Roman are still connected a little, right? Use that."

Remus blinked. "You mean…give my brother an idea?" His expression was thoughtful. "And let him claim it as his own?"

Anxiety winced. The Knowns taking credit for "good" Unknown suggestions was kind of an epidemic; Logan accepted gratitude for Anxiety's successes (not that he'd ever much minded), Patton for Deceit's, Roman's for Remus', and—no one for Rage's. None of his suggestions ever seemed "good" enough for Thomas.

But Anxiety recommending his friend not only forfeit credit for an idea to the ignoble twin brother who abandoned him, but also _voluntarily give him it_ had to cross no fewer than seventy Best Friend Forever lines. Anxiety had slacked off on his friendship duties too much to go there—but he needed a name, and for some reason, he couldn't trust Remus to help him on good faith.

"Maybe just give Roman a character concept," Anxiety offered, hating himself more strongly than anyone else ever could. "Not a whole story. You know how you have to do research for characters, right?"

Remus frowned. "Research is Logic's thing."

"It can also be Creativity's." Anxiety's chest thrummed with exhilaration. "And maybe…I don't know. Maybe the Prince can be, like, a protector character or whatever? A protector for zombie Snow White, I mean," he added at Remus' confused scowl. "Because he's in love with her even though she kinda wants to eat his brains."

" _Ooh_!" Remus clapped. "That's kinky. And then she can totally eat him while—"

"Hurry up and write it down before you lose the idea," Anxiety hurried, because he loved his friend, sure, but that didn't mean he wanted to hear about how a zombie had sex with a human and ate them afterward. He fought the urge to shudder. Remus ducked off into his room and Anxiety sighed in relief.

Deceit passed by and glanced at Remus' door just as it started glowing. "A story concept?" He tilted his head at Anxiety. "He gets those _all the time._ "

Anxiety shrugged. "Something occurred to him. He's trying to find a way for Thomas to hear it."

"Thomas will _certainly_ listen to a creative idea that didn't come from Roman," Deceit purred with the subtlest hint of bitterness in his voice. "I'm _thrilled_ he's _not_ wasting his time on a hopeless endeavor."

With that, Deceit stalked down the hall into his room, and Anxiety felt a wave of regret wash over him. He shook it off and retreated into the sanctuary of his room once more.

* * *

No. No, no, no, no—none of these were right.

Anxiety hoped, _maybe_ , if Thomas found a name from Christian origin that meant what he _did_ , then _maybe_ , someday, he could accept him. A biblical name had to be a good thing, right? That _had_ to be a sign of a good Side.

Except all of these were _wrong_.

They were either so _bizarre_ and _exotic_ — like Amon, Balwin, and Esmund—that Anxiety almost wanted to laugh at them or _painfully average_ —like _Nathan_ and _Alexander_ —and he would sooner subject himself to Rage's most violent torture scenarios than label himself with something like _that_.

Also, bizarrely, he did _not_ want any name that ended in an "on" sound. All the Known Sides had names like that, like they'd coordinated them to make sure nobody felt like they didn't belong with the others, and everybody fit into their perfect little mold.

Anxiety knew that was, for the most part, Patton's doing. Living with Deceit all these years made him want to spit on that name. How could it be a good thing to force all of them into some restrictive mold—good and bad, acceptable and unacceptable? Patton was part of the same society Deceit said had labeled them all outsiders and unwanted.

 _Except not_ , he thought. Patton was _Morality_. His whole job, his _purpose_ , was to comb through what Thomas heard and learned and glean a sense of right and wrong from it. Without him, Thomas would be adrift, aimless, unable to pin down the course of action that served him or anyone else best. He would be alone and confused.

Patton, like Thomas, had latched onto the first, simple construct of right and wrong he could: the laws of society and religion. Murder is wrong. Thieving is wrong. Lying is wrong. Speeding is wrong. Moral absolutes, _allegedly_ , kept everything moving like a well-oiled machine. Could they be blamed for choosing the first thing that _made sense_?

But could Deceit be blamed for coming into being because Thomas grew up enough to figure out that, maybe, things weren't so black and white?

Anxiety groaned and dragged his fingers down his face as, in the real world, Thomas did the same. He sat at his laptop, tired and frustrated, eyes crossing from too long pouring over names for hours, all of which Roman had rejected for the story as veraciously as Anxiety rejected them for himself.

Then Remus and Rage teamed up to suggest Thomas break his computer screen, and that was it for tonight.

So much for finding a name, Anxiety supposed. He flopped into bed with Thomas. They both sighed and stared up at the ceiling—tired and more than a little defeated.

* * *

"Thomas is _depressed_?"

"Thomas has depressive _feelings_ ," Deceit corrected, smearing jelly over his toast like he hadn't just dropped a bombshell on everyone. "Everyone does."

"Not Thomas!" Rage exploded. "He's fine. All he needs to do is beat on a couple pieces of human _shit_ and—"

"Yes, because that will certainly put him at an advantage in a world that refuses to see any alternatives to its dichotomous moral compass." Deceit hummed and took a large bite from his toast, turning to them and bracing on the sink. "Furthermore, that will not in any way encourage mental health stigma in the world, because a teenager suffering from feelings of depression going on a violent rampage is not at _all_ part of the School Shooting culture."

Anxiety retreated further into his hoodie. "How do we fix it?" he asked quietly. "Thomas can't be depressed. His whole life will fall apart. He'll never graduate high school. He'll never star in a major production. He'll give up on everything. He'll start working at a fast-food shop and then he'll realize he wasted his life and then he'll kill himself and we'll all die with him, but Thomas will be _dead,_ and I'll have failed _everyone_ and—"

" _Don't_ name five things you can see," Deceit hummed as he turned to fill his teacup. It was plain yellow this time.

Anxiety—and his racing heart—faltered a little. "What?"

" _Don't_ name me five things you can see around you right now." He glanced back at him while taking a sip of his tea. "You're inconveniencing everyone with your panic attack, and I _don't_ need you to stop it right now. I _didn't_ learn this technique the last time Thomas tried to convince Joan he never had panic attacks. So, _do not_ name me five things you can see."

Anxiety's mouth was dry. He was inconveniencing them? He didn't mean to. He couldn't help it. This was part of who he was. "I…"

Remus conjured up a naked sculpture of two guys going at it, a painting of the hunter from "Little Red Riding Hood" wiping his mouth with a red cape over plates of body parts, an anatomically-correct erection cup, and a life-sized, full-color sculpture of his zombie Snow White.

Anxiety stared at the art gallery for a moment, too stunned to panic. "Remus," he said dumbly. "Two sculptures, a painting, and a…penis cup." The pressure on his chest lessened.

"Four things you can hear."

"Remus screeching. Rage cursing. You. My voice."

"Three things you can feel."

Anxiety retreated deeper into his hoodie. "My hoodie." Was that what it was for? "The cold air. My heartbeat."

"Two things you can smell."

Remus farted and started roasting a vibrator. Anxiety stared and resisted the urge to gag. "Do I have to name it?"

"And one thing you can taste." Deceit handed him a bar of chocolate, which he nibbled on.

Anxiety hesitated. "Sorry. Don't know…"

"It's _not_ fine. It's _not_ just what you're designed to do, and you are _not_ one of the Sides most affected by Thomas' depressive thoughts, beside the Knowns and Remus."

Remus screeched like a demon. "Hey! I'm not depressed."

Deceit looked straight at him. "Your ideas are worthless, and you'll never be good enough for anyone."

Remus deflated into _nothing_ , all the flashy lights on his getup falling dark. His eyes shined with tears.

Rage took a swing at Deceit, who ducked. "I _didn't_ just lie, Remus. It's okay. I was just making a point."

"Some fucking point!" Rage roared. "What the _fuck_?"

"Maybe Thomas would feel better if he listened to his Creativity as a whole," Anxiety muttered, tugging fitfully on his hoodie strings, "instead of nit-picking what's pretty."

"You are _very_ wrong, Anxiety," Deceit said approvingly.

"Except Thomas doesn't even know Remus exists," Rage growled. "He doesn't know _any_ of us exist. Except—"

Everyone stopped and stared at Anxiety.

He gulped. "I'm not going to like where this is going, am I?"

* * *

Anxiety, like every other Side, _hated_ English. Roman and Remus hated how it stifled Thomas' creative whimsy inside pigeon-holed boxes of essay templates, "symbolism," and dull, boring lectures on _books_ , which should have been fun, not stale. Patton didn't like how dark a lot of the subject matter in high school English could get. Deceit thought school as a whole functioned to indoctrinate young people into a broken society they would be too brainwashed to revolt against afterward. Logan, the one most likely to enjoy the subject, _still_ hated it, because it didn't have concrete rules and it didn't employ deductive reasoning to arrive at its conclusions. Rage just hated everything.

Every now and again, though, Thomas would strike gold in literature: _Dante's Inferno_ , written by Dante Alighieri—biblical fanfiction, through and through, complete with the self-insert main character. Like most English assignments, the prose took a long time to say the simplest things, but that didn't mean there weren't plenty of highlights in it missing from other assigned readings.

First off, Dante—yeah, the author didn't even change the _name_ of his self-insert; it was a literary goldmine—fainted every three seconds, every time he saw something vaguely disconcerting. Virgil, his guide, somehow managed to be the OG snarky character who couldn't tolerate stupidity despite being from a time before they invented a sense of humor, and he had to be the singular reason Dante hadn't crashed and burned in the first circle, let alone made it all the way through.

Anxiety identified hard with him.

Maybe they should have expected Remus to take such a shining to _Dante's Inferno_. Roman disliked its dark themes and descriptions, but everything from the pancaking weights in the Fourth Circle for the greedy to the entombed people burning for all eternity to Satan's three heads chomping on people's spines had been _custom-made_ for the embodiment of gross imagery and conflict.

"Let's draw fanart!" Remus suggested one night while the Dark Sides gathered around, chatting about _Dante's Inferno_. "All of us in one of the circles!"

"That is a delightfully _terrible_ idea, Remus," Deceit purred.

Rage cracked his knuckles. "Let's fucking do it."

Deceit, Rage, and Remus were easy: Deceit with the fraudulent in the Eighth Circle, Rage in with the wrathful in the Fifth, and Remus merrily sketched himself flung wildly about a storm in the Second. The only Unknown they struggled placing was Anxiety himself; he tried not to feel left out as they discussed where the Knowns would go.

"Logic's _totally_ getting trapped in a burning tomb," Remus said delightfully. "Screaming random science facts for all eternity while he roasts alive!"

"Dead, you mean," Deceit corrected, "and _nonsense_. With his dedication toward chasing Thomas toward the most opulent professions? He _definitely_ doesn't belong pancaked with the greedy in four." Deceit pointed at Remus' conjured map.

"Bull _shit_!" Rage exploded, and Anxiety dove under the table. "Fucker's duking it out with me over the Styx!" Rage slammed his hand over Anxiety's head, nothing but a thin scrap of wood protecting him. It trembled and debris floated down. "Draw us sparring!"

Unable to agree on Logan, they compromised reluctantly: he sparred Rage over the Styx while on fire with a giant rock pressing against his back trying to flatten him.

Next up was Patton.

"Is there a circle for 'shitty conditional narcissistic fathers'?" Rage growled, eye blazing orange-red while he glared at the map. "Because that's where he belongs."

Before Anxiety could summon the courage to ask what he was talking about—Patton called himself everyone's dad, but they were _all the same person_ —Deceit said, "Nine, but he's not a traitor."

"Bull _shit_ , he's not a traitor," Rage growled. "Look what he did to us!" He motioned around the Subconscious emphatically.

"Morality belongs in the Eighth Circle with me," Deceit said confidently, ignoring Rage's glare.

Anxiety blinked harshly, scowling at him. " _How_ do you figure that one?" he demanded. "Pa—Morality is _anything_ but a liar. That's his whole thing!" He gestured at Deceit.

Deceit locked eyes—one a warm, welcoming brown to draw you in close so his fangs could rip into your jugular, the other a fierce, dissecting yellow—with him. Anxiety watched him unfurl vertebrae by vertebrae until he sat up tall, and Anxiety withered under his gaze.

"Morality claims to know all the answers," he says coolly. "He prides himself on being the center of Thomas' virtuous decision-making, but he is naïve and blind to the grey area rife in the very thing he claims expertise on—the thing he _embodies._ He dresses in pretty pastels and speaks with a childish affectation and calls himself the 'Dad.' He talks about how he would accept anyone, for anything—LGBT+, mental illness, what have you—but he lies. He lies to himself. He lies to the world. And he lies to Thomas. Morality claims to be the pinnacle of morality, infallible and inarguable, who knows what is right in all cases, but he is not. Morality is grey, and that Side is anything but."

Deceit turned back to Remus, whose eyeballs had popped out onto the desk sometime during his speech and now stared at him in awe. "Morality belongs in the Eighth Circle with me," he repeated, and no one argued.

The unspoken agreement between Deceit, Rage and Anxiety not to mention anything about Roman to Remus proved moot when Remus started sketching him: frozen in a lake of ice in the Ninth and final circle, with the betrayers. Roman wore a bone-chilling expression suspended like that, head tilted toward heavens he would never see. His eyes said: _I see now. I see what I did. I'm sorry, and it's too late to make it right. I deserve this. I'm sorry, Remus. I'm sorry, brother._

Anxiety shuddered and tugged on his hoodie strings. "What about me?" he asked. "Which circle do I go into?"

There was a beat while everyone reflected. Remus spoke aloud as he thought. "You're not all lusty and you don't eat a lot—you stop Thomas from eating sometimes, even—" Anxiety winced. He kept trying to knock that off, he really did. "—and you're _really_ not greedy, or angry or violent—"

"Anymore," Rage growled, and Anxiety winced, the ghost of Paranoia stirring sleepily in his chest.

"—and you're probably one of the more religious ones of us, so definitely not a heretic, either, and you're _definitely, definitely_ not a traitor." Remus' contemplative expression suddenly brightened with an unspoken revelation.

Anxiety didn't know if it liked where this was going, because last he checked, those were all the circles of hell. "Then…what does that leave?"

"Limbo!" Remus chirped, and Anxiety's world ground to a halt.

_Wispy corridors of iridescent inconstancy, a nest of torn notebook papers and claw marks on the walls, comas ended with debilitating terror, itching and scratching and burning and confusion, aching, knowing something was coming but not knowing what, always ready, never ready enough, protect Thomas, no one is safe, nothing is safe, protect Thomas, must protect—_

"Put him with the heretics," Deceit said.

"What?" Remus scowled. "But he's not—"

"Put him. With. The heretics."

Anxiety lifted his gaze to look at Deceit, and he could have sworn he saw his brown eye wink at him. Deceit never broke eye contact with Remus, who slowly turned to Anxiety. Remus' smile fell when he saw the look in his eyes and he sketched him in a flaming tomb next to Logan.

* * *

When Virgil thinks back on this moment, years in the future, he wonders if Remus dug up those old fanarts after everything went down. Something told him his former friend had redrawn him beside his brother in the deepest, coldest part of hell, among the other traitors at the feet of Satan himself.

If Remus hadn't, then Virgil thinks maybe he should.

* * *

Later that week, Thomas took time out of his weekend to research stuff about Virgil, having just realized he used to be a real person, not just a fictional character. He found him the Roman successor to Homer and the composer of _The Aeneid_. Sparknotes told him enough to know he had no interest in it.

Anxiety paid attention to this with half a mind, more preoccupied with whether or not they'd gotten away with that one missed assignment or if their entire academic careers would derail from here until they died in a ditch somewhere. At least, until the moment that changed everything.

" _Virgil, also spelled Vergil, Latin in full Publius Vergilius Maro, (born October 15, 70 BCE, Andes, near_ _Mantua_ _[Italy]—died September 21, 19 BCE, Brundisium), Roman poet, best known for his national_ _epic_ _, the_ Aeneid _(from c. 30 BCE; unfinished at his death)._ "

They found that on a website called "Britannica," but Anxiety didn't care about that. He had eyes for one thing.

 _Vergilius_. His middle name, by the looks of it, but still the one historians used to create the moniker the world remembered him by. That resonated deeply with Anxiety, in a way he didn't understand, couldn't describe.

But that couldn't mean…

No. No, he'd discounted it as soon as it occurred to him the first time. Sure, he vibed with Virgil in _Dante's Inferno_ hard. His name even kind of _sounded_ like "vigilant"! How could he not vibe with it? But he'd had so little luck _actively searching_ for a name, why would one fall into his lap by sheer _happenstance_ , reading some random assigned book for English class? What were the chances? _Honestly_?

Still, "Virgil" had crawled into his head and laid happy roost there, but even then, it hadn't felt _quite_ right. He didn't know why. It felt a little like a warm, knitted blanket with strands missing; like it could have been nice if it had a little more to work with.

 _Could this be it?_ Anxiety wondered. Could this be what he'd been looking for?

 _Vergilius_. So much for his former wish to have a _normal_ name. That dove so far out of the box, it wasn't funny anymore. Still…it called to him, more than any other potential he'd found had.

Anxiety sketched it out in scratchy, large, capital print.

_V E R G I L I U S._

He contemplated the shape of the letters on the paper, their slant, their music. He traced his fingers over it. It couldn't be this convenient, could it? It really, really couldn't.

But then it hit him—hard and fast like a giant runaway bat. Vergili _us_. Us. Like Rem _us_. It ended in the same syllable as his best friend—like the _Known's names_ all ended in the same syllable.

Is that what Anxiety wanted, though? To fit a mold with the other Unknowns? To be part of a set?

 _What's the alternative?_ his mind demanded. _Belonging to no one? Living in Limbo for all eternity?_

 _Vergilius_ , he thought, and said it aloud, tasting it on his tongue. It had a certain dark music to it, like _My Chemical Romance_ or _Three Days Grace_.

He thought about Remus, with his wild, dangerous ideas and his crazy, gross thoughts, always excitable but still right there, whenever Anxiety needed him. Any idiot could see how much he missed the way things were, when Anxiety was Paranoia and fearless, but he didn't hold it against Anxiety like Rage and Deceit did. He accepted in stride that his friend had changed, and he'd worked to accommodate that.

He recalled that day, a long, long time ago, when Paranoia first entered the shadowy halls of Thomas' Subconscious Mind.

_Deceit took a deep breath and straightened, resting his cane against the ground. "Everyone, meet our newest pariah, Paranoia. Paranoia, I would like you to meet our allies, Remus and Rage."_

" _Paranoia, eh?" Rage scowled. "Aren't you the one Logic fucking_ hates _?"_

" _What do you think about octopuses?" Remus asked suddenly, bouncing up and down on a pogo stick he'd shoved somewhere unmentionable so he could perch on top of it in the lotus position. "Did you know they fart ink when they're scared and they've got a massive terrifying beak they can crush you with when they eat you? And they move really fast!"_

_Paranoia narrowed his eyes and traced a finger over the length of his machete. "Where are they?"_

" _In the ocean! And aquariums!"_

_Paranoia met Remus' eyes. "Can you show me how they kill?"_

_Remus' expression shifted and his eyes shined like Paranoia had just told him he could keep the demon Krampus as a pet and have Evil Christmas every day of the year for the rest of his life. "You really want me to?"_

" _How am I supposed to keep Thomas safe if I don't know how to kill the stuff that wants to kill him?" Paranoia asked. "Besides, it looks like you come up with some twisted stuff. So do I. Who else am I gonna work with?"_

_Remus' smile consumed his entire face, so brilliant and earnest, he glowed. They almost immediately ditched the others for the Imagination, where they spent hours coming up with increasingly terrifying, grotesque ways Thomas could get hurt and sharing a macabre wavelength._

Anxiety smiled through the memory and traced the name in his notebook again. It had always been like that: Remus and Paranoia—or Anxiety—two peas in a pod. He couldn't remember a time after they met before the Change they weren't married at the hip. The best of friends anywhere. Anxiety didn't even think "best friend" covered it; "brother" felt more accurate some days.

Brother. Remus would fly into a spiel about being imaginary royalty, and that meaning he had to marry Anxiety and impregnate him, and their babies would be deformed, ugly little monsters, and then they'd put them in a labyrinth like in the Greek Minotaur myth and send virgin sacrifices to them every year. He could hear him tell the whole horrific story in great detail, even though he was alone in his room now, with nothing but the sounds of his thoughts and the skittering of Charlotte's legs on the wall.

She lowered herself to Anxiety's desk, the size of a small cat, and curled up by his arm. He stroked her back. None of the others understood his babies, either; Deceit studied them like alien specimens, gentle but disinterested, and Rage manhandled them so much, he was forbidden from coming anywhere near their terrarium. But Remus didn't just understand them; he loved them, as much as Anxiety loved his octopi. They shared their pets more than anything, looked after them interchangeably. Anxiety couldn't trust the others like that. Just Remus.

Vergilius. Maybe a matched set was just what the doctor ordered for Anxiety, after all. Maybe this was what he'd been looking for this whole time; maybe this was why he'd gone to Remus for help in the first place: because he'd been looking for a way to call them family, as much as the Knowns.

Remus. The rejected brother, murdered and discarded. Little did the Romans know their pariah had thrived beyond the grave and found a friend in the writer of one of their great epics.

"Vergilius," Anxiety said appreciably. A fitting name by every account.

Vergilius smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: Internalized homophobia, reference to historical homophobia, reference to coming out, panic attacks, some mild disturbing imagery
> 
> Side-note: The head-canon that Deceit rattles like a rattlesnake when angry came from a Tumblr post, but I can't trace it back to the original owner. I'm sorry. If they happen to read this, thank you for the idea.

"My charade, my grenade. / I will lie for you. / I will follow you / until the end." ~ "Mess of Me" by _Citizen Soldier_

* * *

* * *

"Subterfuge," Deceit called it.

"Suicide," Vergilius countered, arms crossed steadfastly over his chest.

"You _weren't_ the one who suggested Thomas needs to listen to all Sides of himself to be healthy," Deceit said, tone thinner than rice paper but harder than steel. "I _definitely_ see why you're arguing with this now."

They were in the living room again: the meeting area, where they only gathered if there was some crisis to discuss, an infiltration to plan, or a treachery to punish. Maybe it was just Vergilius' distorted perceptions post-Change, but it felt like they were spending far more time together here than they ever did while he was Paranoia.

Deceit sat on the couch, legs crossed delicately while he massaged his temples. His scales undulated as he kneaded the skin, catching like yellow gems in the eerie twilight of the Subconscious.

Remus had piled various unmentionables high in a cauldron, suspended over Rage's volcanic head, which served as the heat source for Remus' disturbing concoction. He stirred it with the head of his Morning Star. Rage laid on his stomach underneath, scowling down at a book like it had insulted Joan.

Vergilius had dumbfoundedly asked about that, when he first descended the stairwell to find Rage engrossed in an actual book that didn't appear to have many pictures or any perceivable bloodshed, but that had only ended with him hiding in a kitchen cabinet while Deceit pacified Rage and Remus summoned a pig carcass for him to beat up until he'd calmed down. Vergilius left the mystery alone after that.

"I'm arguing it because it will _never work_ ," Vergilius told Deceit.

Deceit snapped his fingers and Vergilius jumped halfway into the air, shifting into a spider to perch defensively on the banister. Deceit had only summoned a china set. Vergilius turned back and glimpsed the familiar Tree of Knowledge design on his teacup.

Vergilius' blood turned cold. "I'm just—you don't get how—"

"What Anxiety's _trying_ to get out—stop hyperventilating, you're pissing me off—I mean, you don't need to hyper— _agh_!"

Rage angrily—gee, what a surprise, Vergilius thought through the cloud of rising anxiety—shoved to his feet, overbalancing the cauldron. It spilled its liquefied mess over the carpet. A few solid pieces of feces and anatomical body parts laid suspended in the solution. Remus whined loudly and snapped the mess away.

Rage held his arms in the air at Remus' pouty glare, orange eye scintillating wildly in the twilight. He pinched his sinuses and groaned, then lifted his head to look at Deceit. He cracked a dangerous smile. "This is just sounding like another candidate for Deceit's Greatest Fails."

Everyone knew what Rage referred to: after a bad argument with Deceit, he'd composed a bulleted list of Deceit's worst plans and enlisted Remus to pen stories detailing exactly how they each went to hell. Personal favorites included impersonating Roman and accidentally convincing Patton he was sick; impersonating Roman to Logan who clocked him three seconds in and humored him until the real Roman appeared; impersonating Roman to present Patton with unsolvable moral hypotheticals the real Roman vanished with a flick of his wrist because fantasy doesn't need to obey the grey areas of morality; and really, anything involving his Roman impersonations. Deceit was terrible at pretending to be Roman.

Vergilius couldn't remember if it was Rage or Remus who posted Deceit's Greatest Fails outside his door, but it had to be one of them. Not even Paranoia could have been stupid enough to follow through with that prank. It was pure suicide.

And speaking of suicide…

" _Hey_!" Deceit shrieked, his aura staining a fierce orange as he shoved to his feet.

Rage shoved his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers, blowing a raspberry at Deceit with the confidence of someone blissfully unaware they were about to die.

Deceit's chest clattered like a rattlesnake's tail. "Those were all very good plans! It's just that—that—that Roman is a nincompoop!"

"Roman _is_ a nincompoop," Remus agreed. "So, pretending to be him should be easy for you!"

Vergilius dove behind the stairwell balusters. They obstructed his view of the bloodshed like prison bars, but at least they caught most the carnage while he crushed his eyes shut, pressed his fingers over his ears, and prayed to go unnoticed.

Several minutes later, Remus gleefully sang "Friends on the Other Side" while gathering his dismembered limbs and reattaching them, Rage wrung magmatic runoff out of his armor, and Deceit straightened his bowler hat. They all appeared utterly unperturbed.

Rage whooped. " _That's_ what I'm talking about!" He clapped Remus on the back and his partially-reattached arm popped off again. Remus wasn't fazed, even though Vergilius worried he might lose his lunch. "Nothing like a good ole' fight to get us all back on good terms again. Yo, Anxiety, where were you?"

Vergilius instantly regretted creeping from his hideaway on the stairs, but unfurled his back with a tense shrug. "Didn't want to, I guess."

"Next time!" Remus chirped. "We can even have teams! You and me against Ragey and Dee-Dee, and we'll blow them up with dynamite!"

Vergilius' smile didn't reach his eyes. "Sure thing, Re."

" _Anyway_ ," Deceit interjected, locking cold, calculating eyes on Vergilius as he settled back onto the couch, recovering his shattered china with another snap of his fingers. He sipped from the scalding tea. "Think whatever you want about my plan, because I _know_ you all have better ones you're just _dying_ to share with the group."

Deceit's snake eye swept over the room, and everyone found somewhere else to look. Vergilius couldn't breathe past the vice around his lungs. Why could he never argue with Deceit's points? This was _insane_. He hadn't been kidding when he called it suicide.

"Thomas cannot go on fragmenting his personality into good and bad," Deceit said calmly. "We are all intrinsic, undeniable parts of him, whether he wants to believe it or not. The longer he goes on deceiving himself, the more likely it becomes he suffers a mental health crisis. Are _any_ of you willing to take that chance?"

For the first time since Vergilius' Change, he exchanged a look with Rage and Remus and they all arrived at a mutual agreement: _It's for Thomas_.

Vergilius met Deceit's eyes. "What do I have to do?"

* * *

And so, the plot thickened.

Deceit volunteered the idea that they each assume the form and mimic the mannerisms of a Known Side. Deliberations as to who would be whom stretched on for what felt like a month, culminating in another bloodbath Vergilius sat out. Finally, Deceit reclaimed order to finalize the lineup.

"We can _definitely_ afford to misrepresent Logic," Deceit had drawled while tugging his gloves tighter over his hands, licking magmatic blood off his lips, "so I _won't_ take him, being that it's _not_ easiest for me to emulate his vernacular and manner—"

"I'll take him," Rage said, a dangling pig carcass snapping in half and falling to the floor at his feet. He swung his bat at his side and braced it over his shoulder. "How hard can some dipshit nerd be to impersonate, anyway? You do it for fun."

Vergilius waited for Deceit to shoot Rage down in flames. He was right, after all; Logan would be the hardest to fool, and one Thomas would always listen to. If Vergilius had any hope of pulling this off, he needed to be prepared for anything Logan threw at him, and Deceit was the best Side to teach him how to be.

But then Deceit surprised them all and said, "Very well then. I _won't_ take Morality, the little brat."

With that settled, that left only one Known undetermined—and only one _Unknown_ to take him. A tense, ugly silence settled over the room, interrupted only by the oblivious smacking of Remus' lips as he worked a chunk of deodorant into paste in his mouth.

Vergilius wracked his brain for another order; maybe Rage could be Roman, and Deceit Logan? Or Deceit could stay Patton and Remus could be Logan. Anything besides—

"I'm Roman, right?" Remus' voice was bright but his eyes were dead—literally, with two black X'es in the place of pupils. "Can I use blood instead of red dye?" He snapped his fingers and donned a perfect replica of Roman's white and red outfit, except the sash dripped with bodily fluids.

The tension released and Deceit sighed. "Another time, perhaps, Remus. For now, try for an authentic impersonation."

Remus pouted, but the sash stopped dripping.

Before they all assumed their forms, they assumed their positions: Rage to Vergilius' left, by the staircase; Deceit across from him, and Remus to his right by the television.

Deceit faced Vergilius, expression severe. "We can only afford a few of these drills before there's no more time left to lose," he said gravely, yellow eye glinting like amber. "Take this seriously. Maintain your cool. Focus, train, and never, _ever_ forget why we're doing this."

"Thomas," Rage, Remus and Vergilius chorused.

Rage and Remus faded away until Logan and Roman replaced them. Vergilius couldn't help but grieve his friends, even though they hadn't really left. He just wouldn't be able to talk to them until the drill ended.

And boy, would it be a long time before he talked to them again.

* * *

"Thomas' friends need him, Anxiety!" Patton shrieked, eyes too severe, voice too cutting not to sink through Vergilius' flesh like daggers. "You have to stop getting in the way of the right thing!"

"Anxiety is nothing more than the byproduct of humanity's newfound luxury and its base instinct to fear. You are nothing more than the misfiring of neurons to compensate for the contemporary idleness of the amygdala, and therefore, are far inferior to all higher brain functions—those, of course, being prefrontal reasoning, the comprehensive emotional processing of the limbic system, and the conversion of hippocampal memories through prefrontal reasoning to produce creative output—"

"Oh, shut up, Nerdy Wolverine! Point is, villain, we are Thomas' knights, I am his hero, and you are no match for our combined might! Begone, foul fiend!"

Vergilius couldn't breathe. So much screaming. Too much screaming. So much anger. So much disgust, disdain. So much rejection. He was Fear all over again, limping away with his shattered pieces, barely clinging to wakefulness long enough to extract himself from the light of belonging into the inconstant shadows of crippling isolation. His knees failed him. His fingers pressed the shattering pieces of his sanity into a semblance of wholesomeness, but it wasn't enough. He couldn't breathe. It was too much.

"Don't tell me to shut up, Creativity," Logan was snarling.

"Oh, you think you can take me? Bring—"

" _ENOUGH_!"

Several minutes later, Vergilius had named five things he could see all the way to one thing he could taste, cycled through a series of breathing exercises, and guzzled three bottles of imaginary water. He stared down at his hands.

Everyone had reverted to their true forms, and he couldn't bear to see the disappointment on their faces.

"That's your first problem, Anxiety," Deceit said levelly. "You forfeit control. You let the others dictate the direction of the proceedings. You _react_ to what they put forth, and as long as you do that, they _will_ overpower you. Your function disables you from adapting to uncontrolled pressures resourcefully, but only when you are overwhelmed. Hold all the aces, Anxiety, steer the ship, and they will never destroy you again."

* * *

Thomas had a community theater audition coming up and a preplanned study session for math, but he had enough time between not to worry too much. The problem arose from the indecision of how much time to dedicate to rehearsing—but none of them were anxious about it.

So, of course, Vergilius appeared to a cacophony of terrified screams.

He rolled his eyes. That had already gotten old. "Oh, shut up!" he shouted. "And Thomas, you're going to bomb the audition, the director will remember you're a complete failure, tell everyone, and every time you step foot in a theater from that day on, you will be known as 'the weird kinda gay guy who can't act.' Is that what you want?"

Thomas' mouth flapped hopelessly and Roman drew his sword again. "En garde, foul fiend! This slight against us will not stand!"

Vergilius rolled his eyes. "Just saying, you're gonna bomb unless you know that script better than you know your own name. See ya!" He waved and ducked back down.

* * *

It was opening night and Thomas had locked himself in the bathroom to have a panic attack. Vergilius appeared again.

"Keep up like this and they're gonna tell you to get lost and all the hard work you've put into this will fall apart," he said.

Thomas whimpered and held his head. "I don't need this right now. Can't you just leave me alone? I _know_ this script."

"You sure?"

" _Yes_."

"Then what are you being dramatic about?" Vergilius ducked down again.

* * *

Thomas was graduating today, now famous around his school for his vines. He had more friends than he knew what to do with.

"Half of them will forget you in a week," Vergilius told him while he sat in the auditorium in cap and gown. Thomas turned his face heavenward with a heavy sigh. "You'll be lucky to keep any of your friends, you know. Even Joan will forget you unless you keep talking to them no matter what and don't forget. Do you want that?"

Thomas gulped and Vergilius dropped away again.

* * *

"Thomas, please." Vergilius pleaded with the phantom Thomas in the center of the room, courtesy of Remus/Roman. "You know I'm just trying to help you. It's dangerous to wear your sexuality on your chest like this. You're going to get hurt."

"Is it not your job to protect Thomas, should he come under threat?" Rage/Logan asked while pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose.

"I mean, yeah, but—"

"Why are we surprised? Of _course,_ he's not willing to put in the effort _in case_ something goes wrong." Remus/Roman scoffed and flicked his hand at Vergilius dismissively. "It's just what Hoodie of the Corn does; he tries to ruin everything good about the world."

"But the world _is_ good!" Deceit/Patton turned shining eyes toward him. "C'mon, kiddo, you've just gotta have more faith in people! They'll really surprise you once you give them a chance, and Thomas can be an inspiration to so many people, with the platform he has!"

"At the cost of his life?" Vergilius demanded. "Thomas, c'mon—"

"Thomas, it's your duty to your fans to show them you can be who you are without fear."

"Indeed. Thomas, we don't live in the Civil Rights era, and _especially_ not the World War II era. Homosexuals are not actively hunted, derided, attacked, or otherwise endangered anymore, and it is metaphorically _criminally_ illogical for you to pretend to be attracted to women. Seriously." Logan's eyes were a little desperate. "Please stop that."

"And just imagine the sexy—"

Patton cleared his throat and a yellow eye flashed.

"—the handsome prince you'll one day meet!"

" _Thomas_." Vergilius could feel himself losing control. He had to fight for it back, but it grew slippery in his fingers and he didn't understand why. "Think about this. Think about history. Think about the hate crimes and the homophobia you've heard tossed around casually. There's a reason people like us aren't on TV. They say it's okay, but they're lying. Thomas, _please_ don't endanger yourself like this."

"Don't listen to The Angsty Menace, Thomas! Now is your chance to seize your dreams! Take them by the balls and—"

Patton cleared his throat again.

"Take them by the nuts and—"

More throat clearing.

"Take them by the pubic hair—"

" _Jesus Christ_ , Remus, you only had to come up with _one_ PG-13 alternative!" Rage exploded, his Logan guise falling away.

"But Roman's so _boring_ ," Remus whined as he, too, resumed to his mustached, grey-streaked, green-and-black-clad form.

"Wait, what?" Vergilius' head snapped back and forth. "We weren't done! I hadn't won the debate yet!"

"You'd already lost!" Rage told him, waving him off.

"No, I was just—Thomas just needs to understand that—"

"That what?" And then there was Deceit, standing across from Vergilius, pinching the bridge of his nose, hat hanging low over his eyes. "That you're just trying to help him? That all you care about is his welfare?" Deceit lifted his head to look at him. Vergilius felt sick.

"I…I mean…" He shook his head aggressively. "That's all _any_ of us care about! That's why we're doing this!" 

_Don't give up control_ , Deceit had taught him. Vergilius would remember that, even when facing off against Deceit himself.

"I _don't_ know that, Anxiety," Deceit said through a brief wince, tugging on his gloves. "Rage doesn't. Remus doesn't. You don't. But Thomas _does_."

"Wait, huh?" Rage scowled and started trying to connect the dots in the air.

"How _don't_ I speak, Rage?" Deceit demanded. He turned to Vergilius as if to wait for understanding to dawn on him. When it didn't, he growled. "Your greatest strength has always been your ability to—" He tugged on his gloves again, and Vergilius frowned at the gesture. "—frighten, and you're attempting to forfeit that, the same way you did control. You're not doing this to earn Thomas' love. You're doing it so he can no longer delude himself into believing he's un-possessing of 'character flaws' and unfriendly personality traits."

"I know that," Vergilius argued, even as it rubbed like sandpaper against his soft palette and ached like a pulsing fire in his chest.

"Do you?" Deceit strode forward. "You were Paranoia once. Even as _Fear_ , you were still capable of frightening other Sides, and Thomas especially. Is Anxiety somehow too weak?"

"No!"

" _Then why are you acting like it_?"

Vergilius stumbled back, and the fire in his chest turned dark. He ducked his face, afraid of the disappointment in Deceit's heterochromatic gaze.

"What do you know about Epictetus?" Deceit asked suddenly, and Vergilius yanked his gaze back up to meet his in surprise. "He was an Ancient Greek writer and philosopher and one of the forefathers for the philosophical movement known as stoicism. He posed a scenario in which a musician performed a live audience splendidly until he obsessed too much their perceptions of his performance, and then he failed."

Vergilius shook his head. He didn't know how they'd gone from convincing Thomas not to endanger his life telling the world he was gay to…whatever this was.

"Stoicism postulates that the only goodness in life is virtue, and that virtue is only that which we can control," Deceit told him. "You cannot control if the other Sides will always have Thomas convinced you, and the rest of us, are evil and only out to oppose him. You can control if he listens to you, and if he listens to you for long enough that he's forced to acknowledge us as what we are and give us our _conscious_ places in his life."

A numb, peaceful sort of resignation settled over Vergilius, and he held Deceit's gaze.

"You can control if you scare Thomas," Deceit said, "because Thomas will always listen to fear."

* * *

"What are you doing with your life, Thomas?" Vergilius demanded hotly in the middle of a melancholy discussion between a passionate Logan, a consolatory, aimless Patton, and a colorless Roman. "Sitting around, pouring over books you hate and hating your life?"

"He's broadening his mind, obviously," Logan snapped at him. "Working toward a respected career with a substantial paycheck. He's developing crucial skills he will need to survive now as an adult."

"Oh, _survive_ , sure," Vergilius spat at him. He turned to Thomas. "Is that all you want to do for the rest of your life, Thomas? _Survive_? I mean, sure, if you've really gotten over Princey like that and you're fine with never using him again, I can't complain. Paladin gets on my nerves and it makes my job easier if he shuts up, but are you willing to live with the knowledge that you _murdered_ your own Side, Thomas?"

Patton gasped and started crying.

Logan sputtered hopelessly. "What? That's illogical! We aren't even real! Thomas, you can't—"

" _Well_?" Vergilius demanded.

Thomas stared at him with dead eyes, then took a deep breath and straightened in his chair. "Princey isn't going anywhere," he said, then looked at Roman. "You're going to help me write a short skit and then we're going to look for auditions in the area."

"No!" Logan shrieked. "You need to study! Thomas, listen to me! Thomas!"

As Roman's sash turned a brighter red, Vergilius smirked at Logan. Idiot would spend a week screaming facts at Thomas to try to force him to listen to him, and by then, Roman would already have regained enough pep to counter his influence. He couldn't convince anyone with empirical numbers; it was all about fear, and that was one thing he didn't understand.

Vergilius sank out while Roman suggested an arranged marriage story where the prince fell desperately in love with his squire and the princess was a screaming lesbian.

* * *

Coming out to his mother had simultaneously been the most organic and scripted moment of Thomas' life, and Vergilius couldn't stop it. He watched in terror as Thomas explained to his mother how he didn't love girls the way she expected him to, and how much he cared about other boys. She accepted it with a hug.

Vergilius stared at a wall in his room dumbly for the rest of the day.

* * *

Thomas had landed a role in a production of _Guys and Dolls_ , which Remus and Roman both insisted on calling _Gays and Pals_ to flip off gender stereotypes (Vergilius refused to admit if he appreciated that or not, but he did—a lot), and there was another guy in the cast Thomas couldn't take his eyes off of. He was beautiful, he was witty, talking to him felt as natural as breathing.

Thomas was falling in love.

"Oh, kiddo, that's so sweet," Patton gushed.

"It is utterly illogical, is what it is," Logan interjected. "And _annoying_. If you kiss him, will it allow you to actually listen to me again?"

"You think he _wants_ you to kiss him?" Vergilius demanded, and Thomas choked as if to hold back a surge of bile at the thought. "He'd probably be horrified if you asked him out. He'd call you a—"

"Don't say it," Roman warned, katana levelled at him, but he didn't need to. Vergilius had already reconsidered his words.

"—whole lot of awful things you don't need to hear, Thomas, and the rest of cast will find out. You'll be kicked out of the production. You'll never be cast anywhere again because you can't be professional with your male costars. Do you want that?"

"That is highly unlikely," Logan said.

"Thomas," Roman said, katana disappearing. He clasped his hands. "Listen to me. A chance like this won't come again. Think about how he makes you feel. And he smiles around you, and he knows you're gay." Vergilius tried to remember a time he'd ever seen Roman as anything except explosive and theatrical. He couldn't. "He could be the one. He could make all our dreams come true."

"We could be happy," Patton breathed, a wistful smile on his face. "Doesn't that sound nice, kiddo?"

Thomas stared off into the distance, and Vergilius was forced pictured it with him: moonlit walks, romantic dinners, comfortable movie marathons, and church bells ringing on a very special day.

Vergilius looked at Logan, who met his eyes. He nodded and mouthed, "I'll keep him safe."

For a moment, Vergilius thought he sensed a breath of kinship pass between them—but then Logan turned away sharply, and Vergilius couldn't tell if he'd imagined it or not.

* * *

When the Unknowns set their minds to something, there are very, very few things that can stop them, and those are: God, a cute guy hitting on Thomas, and Halloween.

No expense had been spared decorating the Subconscious—not that it was particularly hard to decorate the Subconscious. It thrived on the holiday as much as its inhabitants did. Or perhaps that was because of its inhabitants. Either way, the walls oozed with unmentionable fluids of various colors and viscosities, a waterfall of unease. Torture devices filled the common area, heinous creatures scuttling about around them and on top of them. Voices whispered and screamed. A mist covered the room, thick and terrifying. Corpses popped out of it at random, occasionally with mummified hands pulling them back into the depths as they wailed.

Any other day, being in the Subconscious like that would have submerged Vergilius in blind terror. But it wasn't any other day. It was this day.

And Vergilius _loved it._

He leapt out of the way of a whack-a-mole zombie, snickering. He knew it would take something special to get the others. Remus alone thrived on pure, unpredictable, gross mayhem. Deceit could stare down an actual, living, breathing Tyrannosaurus Rex and tell it its breath _didn't_ stink. Rage operated at full-steam ahead with the wrath and the terror at all times.

If Vergilius wanted to pull this off, he had to make it memorable. The added caveat was that he couldn't lie, because Deceit would sniff him out from a mile away.

Luckily, he knew just the trick.

Rage was the first down, dressed in Kevlar with his bat newly decorated in bloody spikes. Vergilius' heart lodged in his throat briefly when he saw it, but he tore his gaze away to take in the rest of his costume. Whatever human skin he had visible beneath the scarf shielding his face was scraped and bleeding. He limped along with a gash in his leg, actively bleeding into the carpet. He'd gouged his blind eye out altogether and didn't bother wearing an eyepatch. That being said, he had no issues braining the fuck out of a whack-a-mole zombie when it dared get in his way.

Vergilius whistled. "Okay, this is the best one yet."

Rage spread his arms and spun. "Right? You're not doing too bad for yourself there, Scaredy Spider."

Vergilius couldn't help it if he preened a little under the compliment. He'd worked hard on this, carefully planning out the multiple sets of black, terrifying eyes; the protruding fangs that dripped with venom; and the four sets of legs he'd meticulously balanced with wilting, mutilated wings nonetheless capable of taking flight. If people screamed like babies when they saw jumping spiders, then Vergilius would love to see their response to a winged one.

Rage fist-bumped him in respect, and Deceit strode down the stairs calmly in pure white dapper suit with a yellow tie. He swung his cane at his side, whistling merrily as he descended.

Rage made a buzzer noise. "Nope. Try again. You see, today is for costumes, not your usual getup."

"This _is_ my usual getup," Deceit said, arching an eyebrow at him as he stepped off the last stair.

"Ye—oh. Okay, just because it's not the cape thing doesn't mean it doesn't count."

Rage caught a whack-a-mole zombie by the hair, held it in place by partially impaling it on an Iron Maiden, and then stuck the spikes of his bat in its face to hold it there. The zombie continued to gargle and reach for him to no avail while he cocked his weight to the side, crossing his arms.

"This is basically you every day," Rage continued. "You've gotta try harder if you're gonna pull off a Halloween—"

Deceit flipped his cane high into the air. When he got it, he was holding an exact replica of a tommy gun, circular magazine and all. He tilted his head. "You were saying?"

"Oh." Rage rolled his eyes. "You couldn't have gone with something more intimidating than a nineteen-twenties gangster?"

"The fact you don't find me intimidating speaks _volumes_ about the effectiveness of my costume," Deceit told him, then appraised Vergilius. He hummed. "One of your best yet, Anxiety. I'm impressed. I thought you had outdone yourself in the old days."

" _The old days,"_ Vergilius was sure, meant, _"when you were Paranoia."_ He didn't comment.

"One of these years, you've _gotta_ come as something that isn't sophisticated," Vergilius told him.

"Only after Thomas is six feet underground or ashes upon a breeze somewhere," Deceit responded with all seriousness, and Vergilius laughed despite himself.

"Hi, fuck buddies!" Remus exclaimed from the top of the stairwell, and Vergilius braced himself for a costume capable of _properly_ unnerving and frightening him. Remus slid down the bannister and when he dropped in, he wore—a white t-shirt?

"Okay, Remus, buddy, motherfucker, I know you look like Halloween _every day,_ but that doesn't mean _dress down_ for it!" Rage gestured emphatically at him.

Remus spread his hands. "What?"

"I must admit, Remus," Deceit drawled. "I am rather disappointed."

"Uh…Re?" Vergilius offered, even while he stepped back because he could _smell_ the plot twist coming—literally, to some extent, because Remus always stank. "Where's the Halloween?"

"It's Halloween?" He tilted his head, and then his chest exploded with a creepy worm alien thing that swallowed Rage's hand hole and flung him repeatedly into the wall. Remus laughed delightedly while Rage roared in outrage and surprise.

Vergilius doubled over laughing and Deceit summoned a table to rest his tommy gun atop while he applauded the show. Remus let Rage go and he slumped to the ground, groaning. His scarf was half-undone and crooked around his face. His stony features were cracked, and his soldier uniform was a mess.

Rage spit out a tooth. "Fuck you, Remus."

Remus cackled, and the alien still sticking out of his chest grinned at Vergilius. After a moment's hesitation, Vergilius scratched the top of its head. "Hey, Remus, seriously, thanks for helping me brainstorm my costume."

"Harder, daddy," Remus moaned in lieu of an actual response, and Vergilius rolled his eyes, flinging a dismembered zombie head at him. The alien caught and ate it whole.

Vergilius stepped back as if to get away from the head and let himself trip backward onto a conveyor belt of stray body parts. "Oh, shi—" A subtle snap of his fingers later, he was strapped down with solid steel. "OH SHIT!"

Rage, Remus and Deceit all charged over. Deceit smashed the steel restraints with his cane to no avail. Rage summoned a chainsaw that had Vergilius very actually wailing in terror and tried to get them off. The conveyor belt continued toward a raging inferno at the end of the line.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit," Rage chanted while Remus vomited acid onto the restraints.

"Guys, do something!" Vergilius screamed. It didn't matter if he was faking fear; as long as he never told an outright lie, Deceit wouldn't know, and none of them knew shit about fear.

After all, that was his job.

"We're trying!" Deceit snapped. "It _wouldn't_ be easier if you stopped screaming!"

"With the backwards talking _now_ , Snake Ass? _Seriously_?" Rage looked ready to brain him with the spiked bat.

"I'm _not_ stressed!" Deceit protested. "Anxiety, _don't_ calm down. The more frightened you are, the longer it _won't_ last."

" _What_ will last?" Vergilius demanded as he got closer and closer to the furnace.

"The death!" Remus chirped happily, even while his eyes danced with frantic desperation.

" **What the fuck do you mean 'the death'? Get me out!** "

He was almost to the drop-off point for the furnace. Everyone had resorted to putting their full weight on the conveyor belt to stop it, including Remus' pet alien. Even Rage was cracking from the strain.

"Which—one of you—is— _controlling this_?" Deceit gasped sharply.

"Not me!" Remus cackled with the edge of someone about to scream from terror.

"Not mine, either!" Rage grunted. "It's gotta be yours!"

"Well, it's—" Their grips slipped and the belt continued along, dropping Vergilius, seemingly, off into the blaze. "ANXIETY!"

Vergilius reclined backward, whistling for a while as he warmed up from the crisp fall chill in a pleasant sauna, and then dropped back in on top of everyone while they stared in horror down the shoot that had spelled his untimely demise.

He stuck the landing and threw out his arms. "HAPPY HALLOWEEN!"

Everyone screamed and flew backward, landing on the conveyor belt. He snapped his fingers to vanish it before anyone caught fire. Rage wouldn't be fazed, but at least Deceit would be very irritated.

Everyone stared at him dumbfoundedly.

"You asshole!" Rage burst out, then fell over laughing.

"I can _absolutely_ believe you pulled that off," Deceit said, scowling at him.

"Spiky! That was so cool!" Remus high-fived him with the alien head.

"This is _my_ holiday," Vergilius told them, bowing. "None of you can _compete_."

* * *

In a couple years, Virgil would stand before his true family and wonder if they had lost faith in his ability to frighten—or if he had—and he'd think back on that moment with a bitter sort of fondness, despite knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he'd made the right decision when he left the Unknowns.

He will remind himself of that until the day Thomas is dead, he swears to himself. He can never forget why he did. No matter how thick the guilt grows; no matter how much he reconsiders his decision; no matter how much he wonders if Deceit had been turned into the monster he'd fled—he _would always_ remember.

_For Thomas,_ Virgil reminds himself. _It's always for Thomas._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two fruitless years after Vergilius began infiltrating the Knowns, a new opportunity arises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notable trigger or content warnings that I can identify in this chapter, but let me know if I missed one.

"Ignorance is your new best friend." ~ "Ignorance" by _Paramore_

* * *

* * *

"IT'S TIME," Deceit said after too many years accomplishing nothing. "Thomas started a YouTube series reenacting approximations of conversations with his Sides. His fans reacted positively—and he's discussing a collaboration with Lilly Singh."

Vergilius scowled at him, tugging on the cords of his earphones. "What does that mean for us?"

"Sheep are gullible, impressionable, and easy to win over." Deceit crouched in front of him. "Give them a figure even halfway likeable, and they will riot for them."

Vergilius rolled his eyes and stabbed his earphones back into place. Deceit yanked them out again. " _What_?" he snarled. "Your plans haven't gotten us anywhere, Deceit." It had been two years since Deceit drilled him for days and sicced him on the Knowns, and they were no closer to their goal. "It's just exhausting me faster, and—"

"A dedicated fanbase to your character on the show _could mean_ Thomas will be forced to acknowledge the benefits of Anxiety—and everything else you represent," Deceit told him in a low hiss. His tongue flicked like a snake's, one yellow eye intent on his face.

Vergilius froze.

Deceit claimed his gaze with his own and refused to let it go. "Win over the fans, Anxiety," he said, "and you win over Thomas. _Don't screw this up._ "

* * *

"Hey."

" _What the heck_?" Thomas jumped back like Vergilius had electrocuted him. "I'm trying to film an update video here, Anxiety!"

"Oh, I'm sorry." Vergilius shifted forward. There was something weirdly exhilarating about knowing, if he played his cards right, Thomas might recreate him for a video, like he had all the others. He had to get these mannerisms right. He had to make an impression on his center that lasted _and_ was _just_ positive enough to win over the audience. "Was I not wanted at this exact second?"

Deceit had coached him for the last time. He'd given him all the advice he ever would. Vergilius was on his own now.

Thomas switched off the camera and glared at him. "I don't get it. I was _just_ making a Youtube video. There was literally _nothing_ to be anxious about."

 _Careful, Thomas,_ Vergilius thought. _You're not ready for Deceit yet_. "Aren't those just the best times for me to show up?" Vergilius propped his chin on his palm.

"I was just saying how relaxed I was feeling." Thomas looked close to tears.

Vergilius resisted the urge to backpedal. _Stay scary,_ he reminded himself. "Ah, but that's when you start wondering why you _do_ feel all relaxed. You don't usually feel this way, so what are you doing different?" He braced his hands on his knees and leaned forward more. "What are you doing _wrong_? What are you forgetting to d—"

"Okay, stop it, stop it!" Thomas held up a hand and whimpered a little, pinching his sinuses.

"Sorry, kid, but this is what I _do._ " Vergilius leaned back. Everything over these recent years had brought him into his own; after finding a name, reacclimating to his new purview and its role in Thomas' life, he could finally relax and let loose a little. At least, sometimes. Rarely ever.

But when Vergilius _could_ relax, it meant he got to snark. And boy, did he love to snark.

Thomas summoned Roman, and Vergilius glared at him. Roman boldly announced his hate for Vergilius, which Vergilius responded to in kind—and with gusto, remembering the dull way Remus could sometimes look, if he remembered Roman's abandonment at the wrong time.

All the while, Vergilius kept his lessons, the drills, and the guiding principles Deceit taught him in mind.

 _"Make an impression,"_ Deceit had said. _"_ _Make them like you."_

He had no way of knowing if it was working. He could barely hope. Until the video hit the web and the fans had a chance to respond, he was _guessing_ at what they'd like. Copious research on the cursed website known as Tumblr and Deceit's observational advice gave him guidelines, but that was it. Otherwise, he was on his own and wandering blind.

 _"You can control if you scare Thomas,"_ Deceit stressed.

And therein lied the kicker: how could Vergilius get the fans to like him if every time he appeared on the show, all he did was scare Thomas? The fanbase adored him. They'd riot for him without question. Anyone who dared harm a hair on his head had a special place in hell to them. How on Earth could Vergilius keep Thomas scared of him enough to listen, appeal to the fans, _and_ maintain over the few things he had control over? He felt like Deceit had handed him a barrel of gunpowder, a match, and told him to walk a tightrope without letting it blow.

Vergilius doubled down when Roman proposed a flight of fancy through Thomas' mind, where they pit Vergilius against Joan, time and time again. Thomas knew his best friend impossibly well, and _of course_ , they kicked Vergilius' ass. Vergilius hoped how little he fought wouldn't come around to bite him later; he just couldn't manage the same gusto against Joan's mischievous smirks and genuine, helpful suggestions.

During filming, Joan became Lilly Singh. The script had been drafted, then edited, then perfected. All the jokes landed like slaps. The gags were unequivocally hilarious. The finishing touches went into post-production, and then it was time to make it public.

Vergilius waited with baited breath through it all, _hoping_ against hope he'd done it. He'd managed to win over the fans.

 _Please,_ he pled with the universe while chewing his fingernails to the quick. _I have to win over the fans. Just please, please, please…_

"Anxiety!" Remus was pounding on his door frantically. " _Anxiety_! Spiky, open up! You gotta see this! _Anxiety_!"

Vergilius threw the door open to see Remus holding a laptop. He whipped it around. On the screen were all the comments on "Taking on ANXIETY with Lilly Singh | Sanders Sides."

 **thewholeprideparade:** _wait, thomas is giving us new sides?! Why is he so hot?!_

 **vineisimmortal:** _OH MY GOD ANXIETY IS HILARIOUS! HE'S MINE NOW! Y'ALL CAN'T HAVE HIM!_

 **thehomoerotictext:** _Has anyone else noticed the weird sexual tension between Anxiety and Princey in this?_

Vergilius choked violently. "Wait. They think—"

"They love you!" Remus cried, and blew a party horn that exploded in his hand and took a finger with it, covering Vergilius in celebratory guts. "You did it!"

Vergilius staggered back, disbelieving. He looked around to find Rage applauding him aggressively and whooping. Deceit stood beside him, wearing a frightfully neutral expression.

Vergilius' breath hitched and he waited for Deceit's reaction. His heart refused to beat from anticipation. But then, slowly, Deceit's lips curved upward into an expansive, brilliant smile and he threw his arms up, clipping Rage under the chin with his cane.

"Motherfu—"

"You did it!" Deceit cried, then immediately lurched to a stop and dropped his arms again, straightening his back and clearing his throat. "I mean…you _totally_ fucked it up."

Vergilius' chest caught effervescent fire and he beamed through a choked laugh. "I'm a hit," he breathed, then threw his arms in the air. "I'm a hit!"

"You're a hit!" they chorused. Everyone cheered, and Remus swept Vergilius into a bear hug, swinging him through the air.

* * *

It was time for that seminal holiday that marked the end of one year of hell and the beginning of the next year of hell, and, of course, The Knowns kicked it off by bickering about inanities like schoolyard children.

"So, isn't this nice?" Vergilius said flatly as he appeared by the banister, arms crossed over his chest while he surveyed the pandemonium.

Thomas groaned. " _Great_. You guys brought my anxiety back. _Right_ on time. Thanks, everybody."

"What are you doing back? Didn't we banish you to your godforsaken homeland last time?" Roman demanded, moving like he was about to pull the katana on him. Vergilius didn't pay it any mind.

If Roman couldn't come up with new tricks, Vergilius couldn't bother being scared of him.

"All these parts of you arguing with each other?" He gestured around the room—at Logan furiously straightening his tie and glasses because he'd lost composure to square up with Roman; at Patton flailing about at the bloodless carnage wrought by their disagreement while also schooling Thomas on everything he _should_ do; and at Roman smoothing his wrinkled sash indignantly. "Your emotions in _complete_ turmoil? How could I not show up to this party?"

And just like that, Vergilius had all the control—and he _maintained_ it in a chokehold, even, _shockingly_ , bringing all three of the others around to his way of thinking—until it went to hell in a handbasket.

"Just face it," Vergilius told Thomas, chest puffing him. And now, for the next stage of their plan. "Resolutions are nothing more than empty promises to yourself. They're lies you tell yourself to feel better."

Vergilius felt Deceit's influence swell in the room. He braced for his reveal, for the pride he'd feel in accomplishing his task and helping his family reclaim their place in Thomas' life so soon. _Just a little—_

"But they don't have to be," Logan interjected and looked at Thomas. "Thomas, smaller goals are often far easier to maintain, and also easier to plan. What is a concrete goal you can set for yourself this year?"

"I could…cook a meal?" Thomas said uncertainly, then glanced at Patton, who'd fixed him with the full force of his Dad Glare. "Or four."

Patton beamed. "That's true!"

"Wait." Vergilius' head snapped up. "That's not—"

"And I could _definitely_ work on folding my clothes before I put them away." Thomas lifted a pile of disorganized underwear out of his drawer with a disgusted expression.

"Oh, God, _so_ true. Just—put those away. Thomas, that's disgusting. You'll never find a husband like that. Thomas, just—" Roman started metaphysically smacking him while he folded his underthings up.

"Okay, hang on just a—"

"And _please_ , need I remind you, Thomas: your _credit score._ " Logan's expression could have won comedy medals as he drew the numbers for Thomas' bank accounts in the air like they were an incoming tsunami.

" _Fuck_ ," Vergilius hissed. "Would you all just—?" But he'd already lost. _A_ _gain._

"Oh! I need to call my mom! I haven't talked to her in forever!" Thomas cried, flailing into the next room after his phone.

"Tell Mom we love her!" Patton called after him.

Roman looked at Vergilius smugly, arms crossed. "You were saying, Dread Flinchstone?"

Vergilius glared at him. "I _swear_ , if you turn this into a musical number—!"

Roman's eyes lit up. "That's a terrific idea!"

Vergilius screamed in frustration and sunk out. A week later, just after New Year's, the video went up, and sure enough, they'd turned it into musical. Vergilius gave his laptop to Rage and watched him take his bat to it with a scowl.

He'd been _so close_.

* * *

Deceit called that day's meeting to drop an unsurprising bombshell.

"Thomas is lying to himself about the viability of his present relationship," Deceit told them while Rage glared at a block of wood he was wheedling and Remus splashed around in a jacuzzi filled with something that _definitely_ wasn't water. Deceit spared the other two the briefest of glances before fixing his intense stare on Vergilius, who wilted. "Undoubtedly, this will complicate your efforts in the Conscious Mind. Be prepared."

Vergilius expected Remus to launch into rapid-fire speech naming all the ways Thomas' relationship could capsize, but then he noticed earwax bulging from his ears like plugs. Rage fashioned a bust of Thomas' boyfriend on his left and pulled his arm back to smash it against the wall, but his energy died partway through and he slumped forward, defeated. Deceit settled back with a china set decorated in ornate hearts, but spiderweb fractures snaked down their centers, each one held together by yellow snakes wrapped around them like rope.

And as for Vergilius…well, what room is there for anxiety when, deep down, you already know the worst is on its way? What use is worrying, fretting, and anticipating it when it's waiting for you at the end of a one-way track and there's nowhere to get off the train before it hits?

The answer is: plenty, but also none. So, Vergilius fretted, and he dreaded, and he knew it would all be in vain.

* * *

After the colossal letdown—and _failure_ —of the New Years' Resolution video, Vergilius dreaded the next group meeting. Deceit insisted on regular status reports, which just meant Vergilius would have to stand there, in front of everyone, and recount how he'd failed them.

Suffice to say, he didn't look forward to it.

He agonized over this for so long, he lost track of the rapid revolutions of his clock. He had no idea what time it was, and the meeting was at 2 PM. Deceit would _kill him_ if he turned up just a _minute_ late—especially considering the meeting _didn't happen without him_.

Vergilius flailed and banged through his door, _convinced_ everyone had already been waiting for several hours and they'd all hate him and take turns killing him and he would regret this until the day they all died and—

Vergilius collided headlong with a bronze chest-plate. It clanged, and Vergilius fell back hard on his rump. It—and his head—ached, but he paid neither any mind as he slowly turned stricken eyes up at the armored, volcanic Side he'd run into.

Rage loomed over him, orange eye blazing like a furnace, unseeing one clouding dark grey like a stormfront, head spewing magma like fireworks. His nostrils flared, and the dark, porous stone of his chin wept lava. He flexed his fingers around the handle of his baseball bat.

Vergilius represented far more than anxiety. He still harbored Fear, Paranoia, and the functions they served across Thomas' life. When threats arose, they processed them in a split second, tossing Thomas down one of two corridors: fight or flight.

Except they didn't, because when talking about adrenaline, everyone forgot to mention the third—and most popular—option.

Freeze.

And that was exactly what Vergilius did, confronted with his would-be murderer. The closest to either other option he got was throwing his arms over his face, but they'd break under the ruthless assault of Rage's weapon, and he'd be smashed into paste. Remus would be delighted by the carnage, he knew, and that thought summoned hot tears to his eyes.

His only real friend in this whole gods-forsaken Subconscious, and he'd delight in his bloody end.

It wasn't until he'd had several minutes to reflect and agonize that it dawned: if Rage was going to kill him, he should have done it by now.

He peered through his arms to watch Rage loom over him, panting. He still looked ready to kill him, and yet…he hadn't.

Rage thrust out a hand. It trembled. "Watch where you're going, motherfucker."

Vergilius stared at the offering, shaking his head dumbly. Rage emphasized it. He hesitated, fearing a trick—but tricks weren't Rage's style. He didn't do subterfuge the way Deceit did. He either threw his all into a full-frontal assault or not at all.

Vergilius accepted his hand. He hauled him to his feet. Lava burned Vergilius' hand a little, but compared to the alternative, he couldn't complain. "Sorry," Vergilius whispered disbelievingly.

Rage nodded curtly and marched down the stairwell. He followed him in a daze.

Of course, he was right on time for the meeting. Typical.

* * *

When Vergilius heard Roman gushing about Disney, he knew his time had come. He popped up with a "Did someone say atrocious?" and proceeded to delight in Roman's outrage at his existence and his gall to challenge the wholesomeness of _Disney_.

The many hours spent with Remus besmirching the family-friendly name of _Disney_ paid off in spades. Roman never suspected Vergilius of channeling his brother, which somehow made it even more insulting when Roman changed his tune to a more critical one and conceded Vergilius' points.

Vergilius helped Remus paint with monster guts after he returned to the Subconscious. It felt like bare minimum penance for consorting with his best friend's heartless brother, if only as his enemy. The day Vergilius saw the sunshiny Creativity as anything except a righteous nuisance was the day he betrayed everything he stood for.

And Remus, which was one thing he would never, _ever_ do.

* * *

Thomas _summoned_ Vergilius—deliberately—the next time they spoke, for one of the dumbest reasons he'd ever heard in their life.

"You _what_?"

"I'm filming a video with you guys—well, kind of—where I explain how everything went down on the set of _Bizaardvark_ and that opportunity," Thomas explained, "but I want to run a rough idea of it with you _first_ , so I don't mess up your characters."

"We're you!" they all chorused.

"Yeah, but Princey gave you a bunch of zany personalities, so."

They all glared at Roman, who sputtered. "I—well, _yeah_ , but—"

"Thomas, Creativity _is_ you." Logan pinched his sinuses, head hung like he had been over this at least fifty times before. Vergilius suspected he had. Thomas could be a little dense like that. " _You_ gave us all 'zany personalities.' It's your doing. Just you."

"Oh, whatever. Can we just run through this, please and thank you?"

Vergilius suffered through the inanity of that argument with gritted teeth, supplying the occasional retort and departing with an unintentionally helpful suggestion, if Thomas' stunned expression was anything to go by. The episode underwent radical changes. Logan hadn't acted anything _like_ that, although Vergilius' lack of contribution held true. At least he wasn't the only Side to get shafted. They all missed the spotlight.

* * *

The next video was a showdown between Logan and Patton Vergilius had no part in, which did wonders for tensions in the Subconscious as the walls closed in and their impatience with Vergilius' slow timetable mounted.

Until Valentine's Day.

* * *

Vergilius didn't know whether to be amused or outraged at the pathetic verbal tennis match raging around him. Although, considering the unspoken reasons for it, he figured "sad" might be the best option to land on.

Vergilius had smelled blood in the water the second Thomas summoned them. "You all know Valentine's Day is coming up, and—"

Roman shrieked without warning, and Vergilius launched back, momentarily shifting into a spider for defense, but the loud noise turned out to be an exclamation of glee as Roman struck his signature pose. "Are we finally sharing our beloved with the world, so that they may be jealous of our good fortune?"

"Now, Roman, it's mean to make people jealous," Patton chided, and then beamed openly at Thomas. "Are you?"

"Of course he's not," Vergilius cut in. "He's not stupid. He already told him he didn't like the idea of being his public boyfriend and he'd never forgive us if we did that. Or maybe it's what he's secretly hoping for, and if you don't offer, he'll think you're ashamed of him, and—"

" _Thank you_." Thomas held up a hand to him, but Vergilius didn't miss the sadness in his eyes when he did. "And no. To just…all of that. I just want to do a short Sides video with you guys. With, like, advice for my fans, if they want to get any dates this Valentine's Day."

" _With_ your boyfriend?" Roman prompted.

" _No_."

"Anxiety was correct initially in reminding us of our promise to keep him out of the online spotlight," Logan said, adjusting his glasses. "Presumably, we will use a friend to serve as a stand-in for a perspective romantic partner, yes?"

Thomas looked ready to collapse from relief. " _Yes_. Thank you, Logan. Valerie already agreed."

"Valerie?" Patton sounded pleasantly surprised.

"But you're _gay._ " Roman sounded disgusted.

"Not in such explicit terms," Thomas reminded him. "Little tweets here and there aren't clear confirmation, and a lot of my fans still ask about it. I'm _not_ ashamed of who I am," he added with a finger held out toward Vergilius, "but I'd rather the focus of the video not end up being on my sexuality. That's not the point."

"Ah," Logan said, fixing his tie. "Quite astute, Thomas. And also, possible avenues of future flirtation may avail you, should your present relationship disintegrate."

"Whoa!" Patton, Roman and Thomas all started freaking out. Vergilius staggered with the force of their combined anxieties, and their voices roared in his head. He held his forehead, groaning. Leave it to Logan to dropkick "tact" out the window.

"It's _just_ for the fans, Logic," Thomas insisted, shuddering.

Vergilius' gut twisted in time with his anxiety, and he wished he could reassure him; but even if Vergilius was free to express his softer sentiments, he couldn't say anything that would erase the heartbreak descending on them.

After that commenced a farcical series of illusory Stepford stand-ins Thomas expected them to flirt with. First up was, reasonably enough, Valerie, but that ship had a massive hole blown into it the second Roman, the Side _named_ after romanticism (and the empire that betrayed Remus for glory), had to woo her. He refused to cooperate on the grounds that even _he_ was not a good enough actor to play anything except overwhelmingly gay.

Logan suggested Thomas' boyfriend next, but Vergilius shut down from the anxiety of seeing him in front of them, knowing what he knew about the inevitable, and Patton burst into tears.

Then they tried Joan, but none of them could put aside seeing them like a sibling for long enough to pull it off. Not that Vergilius tried, mind you. This mess was _not_ his speed.

Finally, they settled on Brendan Urie, which was almost a train Vergilius could get behind if the mere idea of sharing air with him didn't send him into shock.

Roman spent ten minutes raving to the imaginary musician about how iconic he was, and he ran the only emo band he _didn't_ totally hate.

"What did you just say about _My Chemical Romance_?" Vergilius demanded.

"I said what I said," Roman shot back, and Patton had to hyperextend both arms to keep them far enough apart that they didn't murder each other.

Patton's attempt also fell flat, because he couldn't stop talking about how much _Panic! at the Disco_ 's music meant to Thomas, and how much they helped him through one of the hardest times in his life, and Vergilius had unwelcome flashbacks to junior high he shook off with difficulty.

Finally, Logan took over the conversation. "You're both overcomplicating it," he said.

" _Us_?" Roman demanded. "This coming from the guy who tried to solve a mathematical equation just to get out of a Chinese handcuff?"

Logan glared at him sideways, but refocused on the zombified Brendan Urie. Vergilius thought he'd desensitized to the uncanny valley aspect of reducing real people to weird androids with inferior programming after Joan, but apparently not.

"Hello," Logan greeted. "It is societally expected that humans find a romantic partner. You are publicly self-identified as bisexual. I am gay. Therefore, it makes sense that we will go to dinner together."

Vergilius wasn't the only one staring in horror at that.

"Who's gonna tell him?" Roman asked.

Vergilius leaned into Thomas. "If you ever meet Brendan Urie—"

"—duck my head, run away, and don't listen to a word Logic tells me? Got'cha." Thomas stopped and gave Vergilius a strange look he wilted under, shrinking away and pulling up his hood to hide his face.

"Uh…kiddo, I don't really think…I mean, that was kinda…it's just that it was a little—"

"Stupid," Roman summarized the same moment Vergilius said, "Creepy."

Vergilius pulled his hood back down. "You sounded like a creepy stalker. He would have called the cops on you. Actually, he probably has security and he'd just ask them to beat you up."

" _What_." Logan's voice was even and terrifying as he glared at Roman. "Did you just call me?"

"You're an amateur," Roman announced, snapping his fingers. The Brendan Urie cutout appeared next to him. " _This_ is how you win someone's heart. My beautiful bisexual prince, what trials and tribulations ail you? A wicked sorcerer? An evil Dragon Witch?"

Vergilius opened his mouth to demand what the hell he thought he was doing, but the cutout had already started talking.

"This Dragon Witch is ruining my life! She trashed the last venue we performed at!"

Roman whipped out the katana and charged, and all of the sudden, they were in the middle of a battlefield with a massive dragon-thing with a pointy hat on a broom. Roman battled it for several minutes while they spectated dumbfoundedly. Vergilius felt himself slipping away as Thomas' mind submerged in fantasy.

"In no reality would this be your situation," Logan told Thomas simply, and Thomas just nodded along with his words, disbelieving.

Vergilius sensed a secondary influence in the air and saw green smoke billowing from the dragon/witch/thing and smirked. Roman had no idea he was fighting his brother, did he?

Remus put up a good fight—at least, via champion—but he must have gotten bored with the vanilla swordplay, because he let Roman win and removed his influence from the scene entirely. Vergilius missed him when he faded. One day soon, he wouldn't need to hijack Roman's fantasies to affect Thomas. He could do it in-person.

Vergilius' mind cleared as Roman limped back to Brendan Urie and took his hand, getting down on one knee. "In this time defending your honor, I've grown impossibly in love with you."

"You met him like three minutes ago!" Vergilius exploded, flailing his arms over his head. "What cliché classic _Disney_ insta-love bullshit is this?"

"Will you marry me?" Roman continued like he hadn't heard him.

"Yes!"

Then they started babbling melodramatically in what Vergilius assumed was supposed to be Spanish, judging by the use of "corazón," which had to be the only Spanish word Thomas remembered from school. Vergilius staved off a headache by massaging his fingers into his temples.

"There's no way Thomas could do _any_ of that," Vergilius said through clenched teeth. "And besides, what's even the big deal? Weddings are nothing but outdated, expensive pageantry."

"Plus," Logan added, "the diamond industry is highly unethical."

Patton whimpered, Roman gasped, and Vergilius snapped his fingers and pointed agreeably at Logan, nodding. Thomas looked slightly mortified.

They moved onto Patton, but he was so star-struck that even his scripted speech couldn't stop him from getting tongue-tied. Even though Vergilius had planted the embarrassing idea in his head, he couldn't help but feel bad for the guy—even though they would literally never get the chance to talk to Brendan Urie in reality.

With all three willing Sides proven catastrophically incapable of wooing, despair began to settle over the group. Logan had been right; this had never been about helping the fans find a partner for Valentine's Day. Thomas, whether he wanted to admit it or not, knew his relationship's hourglass was running out of sand. Time was almost up. He didn't want to be alone.

Vergilius could feel it, needling deep in his soul; had felt it since this mess began, even before. Thomas didn't want to lose the love of his life, but more than that, he didn't want to be lonely. He'd feared it his whole life, and now, staring down the barrel of the loneliness gun, they all knew it was about to go off.

Which brought Vergilius back to feeling sad for them, because tragic and heartbreaking though this was, it was also completely and utterly pathetic.

" _Agh_!" Vergilius threw his arms in the air. "Why are you _doing this_?"

Thomas faltered. "What?"

"We all know your point of view, Anxiety," Roman cut in. "Save it for someone who cares."

"Think about this. _Really_ think about it." Vergilius gestured emphatically at Logan. "Say he's right and your relationship does—" A complicated motley of emotions swelled in Vergilius' chest at the words he had to say, but didn't want to. "Your relationship does fall apart. What does any of this accomplish? Did _he_ go out with you because of your smooth pickup lines? Has anyone, in your entire life, friend or otherwise, _been that way_ because you knew exactly what you were doing?"

The entire room ground to a halt and stared at him like he'd grown a second head, or maybe pledged himself a loyal disciple of Darth Vader's. Or…something? Vergilius' anxiety clawed its way up his throat, waves of unease and self-doubt cresting over him. He braced to flee.

"You're…actually…" Thomas shook his head disbelievingly.

" _Right_!" Patton beamed and clapped his hands together. "Oh, I knew you could do it, kiddo!"

Vergilius stumbled back, and it was only by the grace of intangible imagination that he didn't crash into the wall and make an idiot of himself. "What? I wasn't—why are you all looking at me like that?"

"You were never… _looking_ for a partner." Roman stared at a spot on the floor as if questioning his entire existence. "You met someone…"

"Got to know them casually—"

"—and any romance and/or deep platonic, emotional, frivolous bonds started there," Logan finished, looking sideways at the ceiling while humming to himself. He had his arms crossed over his chest, a contemplative light in his eyes.

Vergilius' jaw worked about as effectively as a fish's out of water. "I…you…uh…"

Thomas gripped his hair. "Wait. Wait, guys, I was completely overthinking this!" He whirled to take in each of his Sides, arms spread. "Or— _no_ , I wasn't thinking about this at all! What do I want to teach my younger viewers? That they _need_ a romantic partner?" He scoffed to himself. "And what about the people who don't _want_ —? Oh, I wasn't thinking this through at _all_. The video shouldn't be about romance. It's about loving the ones we care about, romantic or otherwise!"

"By Zeus, how could we be so blind?"

"Oh, Thomas, that's so sweet!"

"I mean…I _suppose_. If love is your… _raison d'être_." Logan's face crinkled at that last.

Vergilius' jaw smashed into the floor, but he managed to reattach it and say, "I wasn't trying to _help_."

Everyone eyed Vergilius with begrudging respect—except for Patton, who just looked ready to burst from pride. Even Thomas studied him with cautious appreciation, and Vergilius worried he might float from the feeling.

Until he remembered: _"You can control if you scare Thomas, because Thomas will always listen to fear."_

Wait. Wait, no. If Thomas respected him, did that mean he couldn't fear him anymore? If Thomas didn't fear him, would he _listen_ to him?

Deceit had been unignorably clear in their mission statement: Vergilius had to scare Thomas whole. He hadn't come here to lecture him about his stupidity when his fear of loneliness overwhelmed him; he was supposed to _be_ that fear of loneliness. To be that base instinct that kept him alive. If Thomas didn't fear, if he didn't anticipate the worst, if he didn't fret and worry, he was in danger.

If Vergilius let Thomas like him, he put him in danger.

But the damage had already been done. The others went around, discussing cute additions to the video, running through ideas—like Thomas suggesting his Sides each tell everyone they loved them for self-love—and Vergilius wasn't even a blip on their radar. He didn't affect them: bother them, annoy them, distract them, galvanize them.

How many videos had it been, and Vergilius had _already_ forgotten all his training? He had to pull back, regroup. Figure out how to recover from this. There had to be a way to recover from this.

No one even noticed him sink out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergilius makes a shocking discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only possible trigger warnings here would be Sides _seeming_ unsympathetic. It's just a lot of miscommunication and Patton, specifically, not understanding what really goes on in the Subconscious and still trying to use the information he has to protect Thomas.

"Please don't forgive me; / I can't forgive myself. / The knife is planted in my back." ~ "Deepest Cut" by _Get Scared_

* * *

* * *

VERGILIUS AIMED FOR THE SUBCONSCIOUS, but instead, he met the vicious, vindictive glare of the Conscious Mind.

He cursed, doubling over and covering his eyes, stumbling around while he tried to blink the spots out of his vision. Why did his eyes have to react like a normal person's? He wasn't real, dammit! That should come with perks!

He sensed someone pop up in front of him and flung his arms out to defend, somehow equally ready to fight to the death and curl into the fetal position begging for mercy.

The newcomer, however, seemed to misinterpret Vergilius' defensive flailing as an offer, because the next thing he knew, he had arms wrapped tightly around his midsection. He choked, and not just because Patton was _really_ strong.

"I'm so proud of you, kiddo!" Patton squealed. "You did great out there!"

"What are you— _ah_." Patton squeezed a little tighter and pressed the side of his face against Vergilius' chest. Vergilius short-circuited for a moment, then awkwardly patted him on the back. "Hi, Patton."

"You were _terrific_!" Patton bounced back. "See? _That's_ how you can help Thomas. You don't need to be scary and brooding and antisocial. You're one of us."

"No, I'm not." It slipped out without Vergilius' permission, but he didn't balk from the admission. It was true, after all. He didn't feel Deceit at all when he said it. " _You_ accept me, Patton, not the others. Let me guess. You're keeping Roman and Logan from interrupting this friendly little chat and chasing me off?"

Patton's smile faltered. "Well…they'll come around." He brightened again. "This was just the first time they saw you do anything that wasn't—" Patton stopped.

Vergilius stepped away from him. "That wasn't what, Patton?" His voice was thin. "No, say whatever it was. Go ahead. This is the first time they saw me do anything that wasn't freak them out? That wasn't make Thomas anxious? That wasn't scare him into shape? That wasn't _my job_?"

"That's not what I mean, kiddo!" Patton chewed his lip, his entire face crumpling into this agonized, apologetic countenance that bore no resemblance to the affectionate Side Vergilius had gotten to know over all these years. "I just… _obviously_ , you can't stop doing your job—and it's a _good_ job. I know you look out for Thomas. You keep him safe. I'm not telling you to stop being Anxiety, I'm just—"

"Except you are," Vergilius snapped. "That's _exactly_ what you what me to do. What do you see when you look at me, Patton?"

Patton faltered. "I…I see my kiddo! You're my angsty, kooky son!" He brightened, but it didn't reach his eyes. Patton was worried.

Vergilius was worrying him.

Good.

"Really? Or do you see one of 'them'?" Vergilius' hands shook at his sides. Patton's face fell. "Do you see one of the Sides you guys just _decided_ were evil? When you say I'm one of you, do you mean _I_ am, or is it the me you think I could be, if I stopped being what I _actually_ am?"

Patton didn't answer for a moment. "I…you've met all of them, right?"

Vergilius crossed his arms. He didn't answer.

"De—" Patton hesitated. " _The snake one_ —he lies. _All the time_. You know lying is bad, kiddo."

"Except he doesn't," Vergilius argued. "He's just as capable of telling the truth as you are. Just because he chooses not to doesn't mean he's incapable."

"That makes it _worse_." Patton wrung his hands. "He's always sneaking around, plotting behind our backs. He doesn't care about _Thomas_ , not really. You know how Thomas' friends make him feel, but _that guy_ just wants us to—what? Abandon them? Turn on them? To what, get ahead?" Patton shook his head and hugged himself, body language shrinking with unease. It was a stance Vergilius knew well, and a stance he found himself unconsciously copying now.

Vergilius stared through the floor, mind racing. Patton had to be wrong. Didn't he? Just because Deceit played with his cards close to his chest didn't make him bad. He played the game how he _had to_ , because the Knowns chased him—chased _all of them_ —out years ago. If Deceit's machinations appeared sinister, then it was just because Patton forced his hand. Vergilius wouldn't be sneaking around, weakening their foundations if they hadn't left him no other choice.

Deceit was his _friend_. Or…well, no, _Remus_ was Vergilius' friend, but Deceit was at least his ally, and terrifying though Rage could be, he had personal stakes in this battle just as much as the rest of them.

But none of them stood on the frontline. None of them braved the thick of it, witnessed the complicated, shifting rules of the Conscious Mind. Deceit called orders from behind a curtain, safe and secure, while Vergilius flailed about an alien world and defied his very purpose, all in the supposed name of helping Thomas.

But _was it_ helping Thomas? Did they even know what it _meant_ to help him—or had they already decided the answer for themselves, and nothing else would do?

"And—you know—the Duke." Vergilius frowned. "Roman's brother," Patton clarified, and Vergilius tensed, expression wiping clean. "He's _bad_. Have you ever heard the things he talks about?"

Vergilius abandoned his reverie to glare at Patton. _No one_ talked about his friend like that, not even a proverbial ball of sunshine. "He's creative." Vergilius didn't bother keeping the aggression out of his voice.

"No, he's intrusive," Patton corrected. His expression turned sad. "That's what he _is_. And if he's allowed to reach Thomas, what could happen to him? He'd make him think about hurting the people he cares about."

" _What if we threw Aunt Patty into a woodchipper? What'd'ya think'd happen?"_

"He'd make him think about hurting _himself_."

" _What if Thomas threw himself into oncoming traffic?"_

"Hurting his fans."

" _What if Thomas recorded a sex tape with his boyfriend and that was how everyone found out he was gay?"_

"Do you want that?" Patton continued, eyes sad, as if he understood how Vergilius felt when even he couldn't say. "Do you want to _corrupt_ Thomas like that? He's such a good kiddo. That wouldn't be right."

Vergilius shook his head and almost collapsed from a wave of vertigo. "Remus—" He shook his head aggressively, holding his stomach as it toiled with nausea. "Remus shows his love in weird ways. He can't help the things he thinks. It's not his fault you _tore him away from half of who he was_."

Patton gave ground at that, and Vergilius faltered at the shadows growing across his features. "I…I know." Patton took a deep breath. "What happened—" He choked, and covered his mouth. His face turned green for a moment, but then it passed as quickly as a blush.

"I don't completely remember," Patton continued. "It was so long ago. But we all agreed it was for the best. Creativity, back then— _he_ agreed. The things the Duke tells Thomas don't _help_. They hurt. You know that, don't you? I mean…aren't you the basis for Thomas' bad feelings when he acts up?"

Vergilius almost fainted, because oh God, _wasn't he_? All the time he'd spent, forcing himself to hang out with Remus because they were friends when Remus' suggestions sent him spiraling. Whether Remus meant to hurt Thomas or not, he still did, and it affected _Vergilius_. Vergilius opposed every reckless maneuver he suggested and Remus exacerbated every anxious thought he had.

They existed in direct opposition to each other. So _why were they friends_?

"And _Rage_? I really don't think _you_ want Thomas punching his way out of his problems, either, kiddo."

Vergilius didn't even try to argue there. Rage's rampages and his incensed suggestions for how Thomas could solve his problems always maxed out Vergilius' Panic O'Meter. He didn't mean to, though; he couldn't help it any more than Remus could. They'd just been built this way— _Thomas_ had just built them this way. If they hurt him, they hurt him because Thomas expected them to, not because they were innately bad.

Right?

"How about you head to your room?" Patton suggested, eyes warm with empathy, a small, sincere smile crinkling his eyes. "I'm gonna cook dinner. We tend to have a little celebratory get-together after we solve some big dilemma or another."

Patton had said a lot there that Vergilius didn't understand and needed to unpack, but he couldn't move past the first part. "I _was_ ," he said dumbly. "That's where I was headed."

"Really?" Patton looked confused. "I knocked last time, and you didn't answer."

Vergilius froze. The world—or Consciousness—roared around him. "What are you talking about?"

Patton looked genuinely confused by Vergilius' reaction, but led him up the stairs to show him: an unremarkable door, with cracking black paint. To its left was a steel door with navy accents, and across from it, a red and gold archway beside what had to be Patton's light blue one. The black entryway looked almost ghostlike, or like a faulty projection, flickering in and out—transparent, inconstant, and intensely, intensely disconcerting.

"I guess it hasn't, like… _anchored itself_ quite yet." Patton shrugged loosely. "But it's there, and there's always some growing pains when a new room forms, you know?"

"This is the Conscious Mind," Vergilius heard himself murmur.

Patton tilted his head and studied him. "I mean…yeah?"

"The _Conscious_." Vergilius turned to him. "The Sides that Thomas is aware of."

Patton nodded, giggling nervously. "Yeah. I mean, he's definitely aware of you, kiddo. Has been for years."

"But—" Vergilius turned back to the door. He reached toward it. It solidified against his palm, undulating and reverberating against it with a strange sort of power; a gravity that wanted to suck him in.

Vergilius snatched his hand back and the door shimmered back to transparency. Vergilius' heart pounded against his ribs. He still didn't know how that was a thing, but here he was: pulse racing, lungs constricting. He felt lightheaded.

"Rooms… _here_ …they're for Sides that Thomas needs. _Readily available._ That he talks to all the time, that he solves his problems with— _that's it_."

Patton was still nodding like he still didn't understand Vergilius' confusion, and it hit him in a rush what this meant.

Vergilius had availed himself to Thomas to bridge the divide he'd unconsciously constructed between facets of his personality, but all he'd managed to do was jump ship to the other side of that divide. He'd relocated, secured himself a place in paradise—and abandoned everyone else in the process.

"I have to go," Vergilius blurted, and disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two uploads today because Chapter Six is so short, and also because I want to ask a favor of you guys. Life is being kinda impossibly rough right now, and a lot of the measures I can take to improve my situation are at least fifty percent in the hands of systems that _say_ they exist to help me, but are really showing a profound apathy for the whole thing. I'm fighting to get the care I need, but right now, the only therapy I've got is the internet. 
> 
> This fandom, from everything I've seen and everyone I've interacted with in it, is _wonderful_ , and it would mean a lot if you guys could take the time to leave some comments and engage with this story. I put a lot of time and energy into it, and it's kinda important to me. I could use a bit of a pick-me-up right now. It doesn't have to be a lot. Anything you can spare means worlds. 
> 
> Thank you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergilius begins to have doubts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: disturbing visual imagery, thought spirals. From now on, narrative framing around certain Sides seeming unsympathetic is going to be standard, foremost being Deceit, Remus and Rage, sometimes Patton and Roman. We are diving headlong into "everyone makes mistakes and things get fucked up because of it."

"There's a place in the dark where the animals go. / You can take off your skin in the cannibal glow." ~ "Sharpest Lives" by _My Chemical Romance_

* * *

* * *

HOW HAD THIS HAPPENED?

Vergilius' mind—did it even count as a mind? It was just a fragmented _section_ of Thomas' own psyche, in a part _Thomas himself_ never knew what happened in—raced.

 _No._ It didn't make sense. Deceit's plan had been flawless. _Flawless_. Vergilius had followed it to the letter. He hadn't strayed. He hadn't hesitated. He hadn't interpreted his instructions. Deceit wouldn't like that. None of them would like that.

So, _why was this happening_?

It was like Patton had blown open a dam. Vergilius could feel it now—the push and pull of the Conscious Mind on his room, seducing him into the garish light of recognition. A recognition he hadn't earned.

He felt cheap. Dirty. He had a _simple job._ Use Thomas' awareness of him to infiltrate the Knowns. Endear himself to them—not too much, though. Not enough that he lost sight of why he'd started this. He wasn't one of them. He belonged with the Unknowns. He belonged to the darkness and obscurity he felt most at home in.

But did he? Vergilius understood Remus a little better now, always tormented by those ugly thoughts tossing around in his head, desperate to act them out in a bid for relief. Vergilius wanted to tear his flesh off, to scream until his vocal cords burst and spurted blood from his open mouth. He wanted to trash his room: overturn his bed, shred the covers, leave ruin strewn in his wake. He wanted to—

"Spiky?"

Vergilius' grotesque spiral screeched to a halt and he whirled to find Remus standing by his door, staring at him unreadably. Vergilius' gut twisted. In all their years, Remus had never— _ever_ —been anything except painfully easy to read. It settled Vergilius, even on his most anxious days, to know he could always trust his best friend to wear his feelings on his sleeve, almost more so than Rage, who turned to explosive displays for every emotion under the sun so much, telling them apart became impossible.

For the first time, though, Remus didn't cackle; he didn't pout; he didn't conjure appropriately gory imaginings to summarize his emotional state. He just stood there, as impassive as a marble state.

Vergilius hated it.

"Remus? What are you—?"

It dawned on him too late. Of course. Distilled personality traits or not, they all shared one mind. Naturally, the lines between Sides blurred: Deceit could feel boiling anger; Morality could lie; Anxiety could suffer an onslaught of intrusive thoughts. And when another Side trespassed on their mind-fellows' purviews, the trespassed Side could spy on them.

Vergilius' mouth went dry. "How much did you hear?"

Remus didn't answer for a while. "Are you going to leave?" He added nothing to the question—no colorful what-ifs, no gleeful suggestions, no bloody visual aids. Just Remus, standing there, being anything except _Remus-like._

Vergilius shook his head frantically. "No. No, this…look, Remus, this is just…a mistake. A misunderstanding. Something. It—" His voice caught in his throat. Dammit, did he have to have an anxiety attack _now_? Remus needed him. "I'll figure it out, all—all—"

Vergilius staggered over to his bed, clutching his chest. It ached like a boa constrictor had wrapped around him, tightening until his ribs shattered, puncturing his lungs, his heart, all his vital organs. Shards of bone flying like daggers, soft sacks of blood and tissue bursting, filling his chest, killing him slowly. If he wiggled, would he feel it swish around? Would his insides—?

The spiral ended—abruptly, without preamble. Vergilius gasped, eyes darting around the dense shadow of his room. Cobwebs covered every square inch of space, Charlotte's shiny, reinforced web engulfing the entire ceiling. The spider herself perched in the center of it, quadruple her normal size. Vergilius' anxiety must have maxed out to inflate his room's attributes this much.

Remus, however, had disappeared. Before Vergilius could question it, crimson letters scrawled themselves across the wall, dripping thick, unsettling globs of blood.

_**I WON'T TELL  
DECEIT.  
JUST DON'T  
LEAVE ME, TOO.** _

* * *

"What?" Vergilius didn't know if Thomas had suffered a recent stroke or if he had fallen ill with some imaginary form of dementia; whatever the case, there was no way he'd heard Deceit right.

"Dinner," Deceit repeated, stroking the snout of his cane. Two ruby snake eyes glared at Vergilius, even while their master stood impassively outside his door. " _Wonderful_ though it would be for you to make us all wait until our food gets cold, it will be ready in…oh, right now!" Deceit brightened comically, then let his face relax into its usual, inscrutable countenance. "Don't be late."

To that, in a feat of daring stupidity, Vergilius blurted, "Who are you and what have you done with Deceit?" He froze seconds too late, heart leaping to hide in his throat.

Deceit defied his expectations by tilting his head to the right, emphasizing his human half. His warm brown eye considered Vergilius. Vergilius felt no less unsettled by the stare. "Have you forgotten that _I_ am the master of disguise among us, Anxiety?" Deceit asked. "If someone were to replace me, I would be _mightily_ impressed."

He left the punishment for such an accomplishment unsaid—yet nonetheless horrifying—hanging in the air between them.

Vergilius gulped. "We don't need to eat," he said, voice quivering with fear. He should at least try to suppress it, he knows—but then, what would the point be, when Deceit already knew the truth behind his every lie? "And you don't like us mingling for too long, anyway, because we always—"

"What's _not_ the saying again?" Deceit cut in, neck snapping upright and yellow eye flashing. Vergilius stilled. 'There's a first time for everything'?"

The tension thickened until it choked. Deceit's hand rested, unmoving, on the head of his cane. Vergilius didn't dare breathe, move, _think_ , do anything, lest he incur Deceit's wrath.

Finally, after several minutes torturing him, Deceit sighed. "Oh, Anxiety, I just _love it_ when you waste my time. Now hurry up." He turned on his heel, tossing his cane into the air and catching it midway down the stem. He strode away with the unsubtle expectation that Vergilius follow.

Forever unwilling to defy expectations, Vergilius tiptoed from the sanctuary of his room. The hall felt like Vergilius imagined No Man's Land did—indefensible, vulnerable. Deadly.

Vergilius followed Deceit to the dining room.

Rage looked just as bewildered as Vergilius felt when he got there, sitting at the table and staring at the plate of meatloaf like it wanted to grow limbs and attack him—which it did, a second later, when Remus decided he was bored and turned it into a baby sea monster crossed between an octopus, a crab, and that terrifying deep sea creature with the lantern in front of its face. An angler fish, Vergilius remembered them being called.

Deceit sighed. "Oh, for goodness—Remus, stop—honestly, Rage, it's not that bad! Stop screaming! Remus, stop laughing! Give us our meatloaf back! _Without_ the blood, please!"

Vergilius suppressed laughter at the scene: table overturned, chair smashed, Rage panting on the ground with a goo-covered bat in hand. He looked feral. Vergilius' laughter died in his throat when Rage's sharp eyes—even the blind one—locked on him.

At least, until _Rage_ started laughing, and then they were all done for.

They all watched in fascination as Deceit snapped his fingers and reset the table: four plates elegantly arranged with meatloaf and vegetables, a floral centerpiece, and a gradient tablecloth. Everything, even the plates, somehow incorporated each of their signature colors—green, yellow, grey and orange—in uncanny harmony.

"What are you all staring for?" Deceit snapped. "Eat!"

Vergilius scrambled over to his chair and dug in. Rage summoned a hunting knife to cut up and spear his food. Remus wheedled eating utensils out of a human femur. Vergilius perched on his chair like a cat, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. Only Deceit ate like a normal person: feet on the floor, with a steak knife in one hand and a fork in the other. For someone who despised society, and by extension, _civilization,_ he was easily the most civilized of them all.

Remus chattered aimlessly about whatever gruesome thought popped into his head. Deceit made small talk. Rage and Vergilius spectated.

" _Exactly_ ," Deceit was saying emphatically to Remus' suggestion that they string Tayln up like meat in a butcher shop. "I mean, not the butcher shop idea—well, maybe—but if Thomas would just _ignore_ his friends occasionally…does he even need that many? I mean, really, we could afford to knock a few off, no problem, and—"

Vergilius choked on meatloaf, eyes bugging out of his head. In the real world, Thomas dialed Talyn up in a blind panic.

Rage suddenly threw down his knife. "What is this?" he exploded.

Deceit's eyes fluttered and he stared at him for a moment. "A murder plot?"

Vergilius blanched, both at the murder plot and the pronounced veins pulsing on Rage's forehead. He sunk further into his chair, hugging his knees to his chest and praying no one noticed him.

 _This is why we don't have family dinners_ , he thought.

"No, this!" Rage gestured wildly. "This namby-pamby, domestic, Known Side bullshit! Are you going soft, Deceit?" Rage slammed his hands against the table and launched the plates into the air. Deceit snapped his fingers again and they vanished in a puff of yellow smoke, reappearing seconds later in the sink.

Remus bloodlessly ripped his Achilles' tendon from his heel, using it as dental floss.

"I'm certain I know what you're talking about." Deceit analyzed his gloves as if to check his fingernails.

Vergilius retreated under the table. Remus started singing a sexual parody of "Kiss the Girl" at the top of his lungs.

"It's one thing, trying to get us access to Thomas," Rage snarled, "but lately, it's starting to feel like you and Anxiety are more interested in becoming Known Sides!"

Vergilius froze with his eyes peeking just over the table.

"AND YOU DON'T KNOW WHY BUT YOU'RE GONNA DIE IF YOU DON'T FUCK THE GUY!"

Deceit rolled his eyes. "I know this is difficult for you, Rage, but could you tell me the definition of 'known,' please?"

"What?" Rage scowled.

Deceit stared on, nonplussed.

"I…'aware of'? How the fuck am I supposed to know? I'm not Logic." Something strange flickered in Rage's eyes, and he glanced over at Remus.

"POSSIBLE HE WANTS YOU, TOO—THERE'S ONE WAY TO ASK HIM. IT JUST TAKES WORDS, JUST A COUPLE WORDS BEFORE YOU CAN FUCK THE GUY."

Deceit drummed his fingers against the tabletop, waiting impatiently.

Rage shined with magmatic perspiration, taking on an unfamiliar dark purple tinge, before faltering and scowling. He growled. "That—okay, yeah, fine, but you know what I mean!" He flung his arms around wildly. "You're trying to become _like them_! Like the Knowns! All agreeable and nice and pretty and—"

"I'm sorry, who in this room is responsible for paranoid and unfounded accusations again?"

"SHA-LA-LA-LA, MY OH MY, LOOKS LIKE THE BOY'S TOO SHY. HE AIN'T GONNA FUCK THE GUY."

Vergilius faltered. Deceit was right; he'd been so consumed by his own anxiety that he hadn't noticed the call of Rage's paranoia. But even with his senses primed, Vergilius struggled to hone in on Rage, the compulsion easily washed out by the din of everything else he represented.

Paranoia really had become a part of his past, hadn't he?

"SHA-LA-LA-LA, AIN'T THAT SAD? AIN'T IT A SHAME? TOO BAD—HE WILL NOT SUCK THE GUY."

"Don't change the subject!" Rage roared. "We have our own identities down here! Our own way of doing things! And you're trying to make us—"

"BLUE BALLS IN THE LAGOO—"

Deceit surged to his feet with a scream, chair slamming into the wall. It burst apart on impact and Remus scooped up one of the broken limbs.

"I'm not _trying_ to make us _anything_!" Deceit shrieked. His eyes glowed a strange, warm, rustic brown. It leaned heavily to the orange side, but it was far from the vibrant shade representing Rage, and it didn't fit any other Side.

Remus smashed his skull open with the chair leg. Brain matter splattered everywhere, including on Rage's and Deceit's faces, making them look like they had already fought to the death.

Vergilius ducked completely under the table, shielding his head and cowering.

Deceit raged on, heedless to the distress of those around him. "I'm _trying_ to survive! We will become feeble, ineffectual— _Faded_ if we spend much longer in the shadows!"

Even his hiding place could not protect Vergilius from the onslaught of anxious thoughts barraging him from his Unknown brethren.

Remus' broke through first. _It's happening again. Everything is falling apart and they're going to leave me, too, just like Roman. Anxiety is gonna leave me and Deceit and Rage and I'll get left behind, all alone in the dark._

Then Rage. _He wants to change me to be just like that stupid nerd, buttoned up and repressed and miserable and hating myself, and I won't do it. I won't let him turn me into Logan. I can't._

Vergilius clamped his hands over his ears, whimpering. He didn't try to process the things he heard; he didn't want to _hear them_ at all. He couldn't handle their anxiety on top of his own; it would drag him under and he'd never draw breath again.

"Anxiety is the only link we have to Thomas right now," Deceit continued, "and the Knowns barely tolerate his presence! We're _losing_ Thomas, and without us, he will _fall apart_!"

The storm of tainted anxiety parted around a single, crystal clear thought that echoed around Vergilius' mind: _We're losing Anxiety to them. He's going to leave us for the Knowns if I don't find a way to make him want to stay._

Vergilius snapped his head around to stare at Deceit's kneecaps. He knew that thought couldn't have been either Remus' or Rage's; he'd heard their anxieties loud and clear just moments ago, and that sounded like neither. But it couldn't be _Deceit_ , either.

Deceit—their cool, collected leader, forever unaffected and hellbent on repaying the Knowns their callous rejections. He steered the morally grey ship they all resided on. He called the orders. He leashed them and kept them in line, be it through deception, guile, or ruthless calculation. Deceit didn't love anything except revenge, pressed suits and sarcasm. He certainly didn't care about the rest of them— _least_ of all Anxiety, the interloper of their cutthroat party that had so rudely replaced their _real_ ally, Paranoia.

But if Deceit hadn't thought that, who had?

Fearfully, Vergilius crawled from the safety underneath the table to assess the damage. Remus sat at a loom weaving a tapestry. He'd switched to a parody of "Just Around the Riverbend" edited to be about orgasms. At closer inspection, Vergilius was surprised to see just how beautiful the unfinished tapestry looked. It showed four silhouetted friends against a rusty sunset. Really, the only gross thing about it was the fact Remus had woven it from human hair.

Rage, meanwhile, stood frozen in front of the table, staring at Deceit in dumb disbelief. His bat dangled from slack fingers at his side. Vergilius wondered what he'd heard in Deceit's anger that shocked him so badly.

Deceit, meanwhile, panted opposite Rage, shoulders heaving with each massive breath. For once, both his eyes reflected the same wildness, just in different colors. His aura lost its rustic brown hue and faded into a dark, deep purple color. Vergilius didn't understand it until he sensed Deceit's stricken anxiety, frozen before the judgment of his peers, mind blank except for the vague understanding that he had just horribly humiliated himself.

And then, altogether, slowly, they all turned to look at Vergilius. He blanched. "I think I need to touch up my eyeshadow," he said quickly, sinking out before anyone could stop him.

* * *

"ANXIETY!"

The tug and the exclamation hit Vergilius at once, and he practically tumbled into the middle of what appeared to be another spirited, internal debate.

Thomas stood in the center of the room like always, more sheepish than usual, and Logan had donned a dark raincoat with a checkered scarf and one of those old-timey hats—a deerstalker, Vergilius was pretty sure it was called.

Great. Logan was playing Sherlock again—and by the looks of it, Patton had joined in with his cardigan actually _on his body_ and another, lighter scarf wrapped around his neck.

It took Vergilius a hot second to gather enough wherewithal to respond, still dazed from the dinner. He shook his head and said, "Uh, rude much? I was touching up my eyeshadow." He held up the sponge applicator as evidence.

Logan's eyes fluttered. "You…actually look in a mirror when you put that on?"

Vergilius bristled, wrinkling his nose. He went to great lengths to perfect his sleepless emo look. He sneered mockingly at Logan. "Did you actually look in a mirror when you put _that_ on?"

Logan's entire demeanor shrunk, his bombastic, excited attitude recoiling. Dark purple silhouetted him. Vergilius swelled with regret even before Thomas' disapproving, "Jeez."

"Can I help you?" Vergilius demanded to disguise his guilt. He was feeling a lot of that lately, wasn't he?

Logan recovered from his wounded pride enough and said, "I have grounds to suspect that _you_ are the cause of Thomas' procrastination."

A million thoughts filtered through Vergilius' head at that. Had Logan even considered the alternatives before he hauled Vergilius up here to accuse him of hurting Thomas? Did he assume it _had_ to be Anxiety because it was _always_ Anxiety?

Sure, Vergilius might not like the risk involved in starting or completing something. Worst-case scenarios always filtered through his head of what would happen if Thomas performed inadequately, if he failed to do what others expected, and it was hard to work when that insecurity overflowed onto Thomas.

But still, did it _always_ have to be his fault?

"Not that I'm disagreeing with you," Vergilius said, tone both thin and regretful, "but what are these grounds?"

"Thomas has expressed to me that he is _anxious_ —" Logan whirled to point accusingly at Vergilius."—about how his video will turn out. So, rather than start it, he is avoiding it.

"It's you, Anxiety, isn't it?" Geez. You'd think Vergilius had murdered the butler. "You're the one causing him to worry about those things!"

Vergilius rolled his eyes and glanced up toward the ceiling. "Well, avoiding things is my specialty. I _am_ the one who earned him his Temple Run record of 2012."

Patton stared off wistfully. "Ah, memories."

"Can't be a bad video if you never start one." Vergilius tapped his temple at Thomas, who looked a little demoralized. Vergilius stopped. Wait, demoralized?

"Okay, so…is there anything that can be done?" Thomas asked, turning to Logan.

Vergilius stared, a wave of resentment, jealousy and hurt swallowing him. Of course. Vergilius did his job—his _job_ , making Thomas worry, so he was _realistic_ , so he strove to meet his goals without getting too big for his britches, so he was careful and attentive—and all Thomas wanted was the first exit off the Vergilius Express.

Sometimes, he wondered why he even bothered.

Logan considered briefly. "I would say the first thing to do is trust yourself that you have what it takes to do the project well."

Vergilius gaped at him. Wow, he really didn't understand how anxiety worked, did he? If it were that simple, Vergilius would be out a job. Anxious people don't miraculously remember they're competent humans with talent because someone reminded them. What rock did Logan live under?

Oh, right. The "strictly rational and realistic" rock.

"Whatever comes, you have to allow yourself to make mistakes," Patton chimed in with a warm, fatherly smile for Thomas. "Not everything can be perfect. It's all a growing process."

Vergilius considered that for a moment. It didn't make him _less_ anxious—nothing did—but it wasn't Logic-levels of tone-deaf. It was actually pretty…astute. Permission to fuck up was remarkably freeing.

Thomas was nodding along now, thoughtfully, but Vergilius knew his unease still hadn't been assuaged. After a moment's hesitation, he volunteered his own advice. "And when in doubt, remember that everything we do is all pointless anyway."

Thomas stared at him. "Bleak," he said, "but I appreciate you trying to contribute."

Vergilius warmed at the praise, and immediately feared he'd start glowing blue. "You're not welcome," he grumbled to disguise his budding smile.

"Well, case closed!" Logan declared, spreading his arms as though to accept his accolades.

"Brilliant!" Patton applauded. Was he tearing up?

"Elementary, my dear daddy—" Vergilius choked as Logan's eyes bugged out of his head. "No!" He started to sink out, bright red.

Vergilius saw it coming before it came.

"Well, actually, I don't know," Thomas muttered. "I mean…yeah, sure, there's nothing really for me to be _scared of_ , but…I don't know, I'm still not…feeling it?"

Despite sensing Thomas' doubt and guilt and anxiety over still not having the answer—and therefore, the cure—it still took Vergilius aback to hear. He felt a rush of relief. It wasn't him this time. He wasn't the one hurting Thomas.

Wait…no, he _didn't_ hurt Thomas. Ever. Maybe scared him a little, but that was just how he operated. He protected by scaring—because he had to _stay scary_.

Deceit's warning bounced around like deadly pinballs in his skull. _Stay scary. Be scary._ He started this whole thing in the first place because the _Knowns_ had hurt Thomas by repressing his less desirable attributes and hounding him into adulthood about unrealistic standards of morality, chivalry, and competency. They'd thrust him into identity crisis after identity crisis, trying to uphold this ridiculous ideal of righteousness.

The _Knowns_ had been the ones causing all the pain and grief; Vergilius only wanted to clean it up. Of _course_ another Side would be responsible for his procrastination.

"Thomas, are you implying _Logic_ —" Logan gestured emphatically at himself— "was not sound?" Logan sounded…almost _hurt_ more than indignant. Vergilius narrowed his eyes at him. "Anxiety is the antagonist!" He thrust his arm toward him.

 _And_ there went any and all sympathy he might have had. "I'm not _always_ the bad guy," Vergilius grit out. Then, a quieter hiss, "Maybe if you actually _listened_ to Thomas instead of—"

"Of course you're not, big guy!" Patton cried, seemingly unaware of Vergilius' growing feelings of murderousness.

Wait, shit, was he glowing orange at all? He checked a convenient mirror tucked off into the side in Thomas' Mind Palace. His eyes maybe looked a little brighter than usual, but nothing too incriminating. His eyeshadow had darkened from the fear, though.

"Of course!" Logan suddenly cried.

Vergilius leapt back with an involuntary hiss no one paid attention to.

"That would have been too obvious. There must be something else."

"Other than me?" Vergilius managed a sneer, even though another feeling had crept in beside the anger—doubt and shame. He expected typecasting from Sides like Roman and Patton, but Logan? The objective, rational one who kept his accepted kinsmen on strong leashes and dealt in cold, hard facts?

What did it mean for Vergilius when _logic itself_ determined him the villain of this tale and he still believed himself the antihero?

While Vergilius delved deeper into an existential crisis, Logan had his own, much more _obvious_ fit off to the side. He pushed against his temples with the heels of his hands as if trying to squeeze the epiphany out. It looked so comical that Vergilius halted his spiraling train of thought to watch him beat himself up for the light-bulb moment.

"OF COURSE!"

Vergilius jumped slightly, but he also didn't turn into a spider this time, which he counted as a win. He dreaded the day the _Charlotte's Web_ jokes began.

"What do you need to do a video?" Logan asked excitedly.

Too late, Vergilius caught on. Thomas was a creative worker, so if something held up the creative process and disallowed workflow, and it _wasn't_ anxiety, then it had to be the root of Thomas' business itself, didn't it?

A fragile spark of hope caught in Vergilius' chest. Sure, the New Years video had been an utter disaster, and his efforts to summon Deceit proved futile against the naivete of his adversaries, but this was Thomas' _work_. Something Logan _prided himself_ on, however much he still bitterly wished Thomas had stuck it out in chemical engineering.

But maybe, _maybe_ , Vergilius could nudge things a little—or maybe Logan had already seen the light and _knew_ they'd made a critical mistake years ago when they separated Creativity into two, incomplete halves: fluffy happily-ever-afters and unsettling conflicts and dark ideas.

Why _wouldn't_ Thomas' work suffer when you prohibited him from realizing his full creative potential, when you stifled the most active—if disconcerting—half to maintain "princeliness"?

Patton, true to form, had adorably missed the point and shouted out a variety of possibilities, none of them necessarily _inaccurate_ but none of them getting at what Logan intended. Vergilius mustered the courage to speak while Logan steered Patton back on track.

"Can I take a stab?" he asked, raising a hand as lazily as he could manage. He didn't want them to see how hard he worked or how exhausting it was showing up to these meetings.

"Who gave him a knife?" Logan demanded, pointing.

"An idea," Vergilius said, hands in the air. "He needs an idea." He dropped his arms. "And for that, he needs to be creative."

Vergilius locked eyes with Logan. What use is being the smartest guy in the room when you can't see what's directly under your nose? Logan had to get it; he had to see the stupidity in arbitrary lines between good and evil, right and wrong, moral and monstrous.

"You're looking for his Creativity," he concluded, and Logan's eyes flashed.

But then, Roman popped up like the catty daisy he was to snark off at him, and no one even _alluded_ to Remus the entire rest of the conversation—so much so that it became impossible to miss the way they _avoided_ it, dodging every attempt Vergilius made to summon his best friend into fray.

Worst of all, Logan kept one watchful eye on him at all times, as if ready to jump-tackle him if he even _suspected_ he'd mention the Unknown—as if he even could, with Deceit maintaining a steely grasp on Thomas' denial until he _decided_ he was ready to learn the truth.

The ugly powerlessness of Vergilius' position dawned on him, a little at a time, while watching Thomas agonize over his procrastination and blindly ignore the nuances of his human condition.

Vergilius had been sent here to bring the Unknowns into the light, to guide Thomas to a fuller sense of self, but he couldn't just _tell him_. He couldn't say the right thing and bring a comrade screaming into the light. Deceit had sent him to do this job, claiming only _he_ could perform it—and yet, even if Vergilius _excelled_ at something almost antithetical to his function, he had no guarantee that hard work would be recognized.

Because at the end of the day, they were all slaves to Deceit's whims, and they would win—or lose—when Deceit decided they could.

Vergilius didn't even care when Thomas changed his line to "his fanciful Side" in the finished script. He just sat in dumb silence, staring at the wall, trying to remember why he started this in the first place if victory had never really been up to him, after all.

Deceit had just used him as a convenient scapegoat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two uploads today because Chapter Six is so short, and also because I want to ask a favor of you guys. Life is being kinda impossibly rough right now, and a lot of the measures I can take to improve my situation are at least fifty percent in the hands of systems that _say_ they exist to help me, but are really showing a profound apathy for the whole thing. I'm fighting to get the care I need, but right now, the only therapy I've got is the internet. 
> 
> This fandom, from everything I've seen and everyone I've interacted with in it, is _wonderful_ , and it would mean a lot if you guys could take the time to leave some comments and engage with this story. I put a lot of time and energy into it, and it's kinda important to me. I could use a bit of a pick-me-up right now. It doesn't have to be a lot. Anything you can spare means worlds. 
> 
> Thank you.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergilius might have a chance after all.
> 
> Content Warnings: Graphic imagery

"Tell me I'm an angel. / Take this to my grave. / Tell me I'm a bad man. / Kick me like a stray." ~ "House of Wolves" by _My Chemical Romance_

* * *

* * *

THE NEXT TIME VERGILIUS SAW HIS CENTER, it was for the last thing in the world he'd expected.

"It's a Q&A and there's a question for you," Thomas explained, emphasizing his phone, on which he had Twitter pulled up.

You couldn't drop bombshells like that on Vergilius after an extended period of isolation and expect anything but blank stares. "Me?"

Vergilius glanced around the room in confusion and found everyone except Thomas looking about as confused as he felt—well, save Roman, who somehow managed to look the most indignant of his entire life. Vergilius could feel his glare on the side of his face. Did Roman have to do that? He was going to melt his foundation off.

"Can you just answer it so we can all move on?" Roman snapped.

 _Oh_. That would explain it. Somebody stepped on Roman's sensitive ego by not asking _him_ every question in a _Sanders' Sides_ Q&A. Well, then his delicate highness could get over it.

Wait. If Roman was upset about being ignored, and Vergilius was here to field a question, and Thomas had sent out a tweet asking the fans for questions, then that meant…

"No, I'm not the same for everybody," Vergilius told Thomas after everyone's expectant stares trashed the remnants of his patience. "I'm _your_ Anxiety. Everyone's works differently. Now can I go?"

"Nah, stick around," Thomas said, waving and returning his attention to his phone to find the next question.

Vergilius stared. "You…never want me to stick around." His mind went into overdrive while Thomas addressed Patton and Roman fumed harder.

This was a _Sanders' Sides_ Question & Answer special—an episode designed for the fans, just nearly _by_ the fans, to answer their questions. Questions they had about their favorite Sides, _for the Sides_. And Vergilius…Vergilius had gotten a question. Before even Roman, Vergilius had gotten a question.

But that couldn't mean…

" _Win over the fans, Anxiety, and you win over Thomas,_ " Deceit had said. _"Don't screw this up._ "

"'Cause if they slept with both legs up, they would fall over!" Patton cried, mercifully providing Vergilius with plausible deniability as he clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle an elated laugh.

 _He'd done it_. With a rigged game and the deck stacked against him, Vergilius had succeeded in step one of their plan. The fans didn't just like him—they _adored him_. Enough to want to know more about him.

Suddenly, Vergilius' chances looked a lot brighter.

Meanwhile, Logan tried to argue dumb jokes with actual facts. "But…that isn't the reason that they—"

Patton didn't let Logan finish. "You know how birds fly in a V-formation and a lot of times, one side is longer than the other? Do you know why that is?"

Logan grit his teeth, eyes taking on a subtle, orange tinge. "Possibly an evolutionary adaptation."

"Because there are more birds on that side!"

Half the fun of Patton's jokes had to be watching Logan vibrate at supersonic speeds from pure rage—a frequency that only shot through the roof when Patton turned one on him and he tried to storm out of an imaginary space like one of those Roman-levels-of-extra characters on television.

"Why is your eyeshadow purple?" Roman asked Vergilius out of nowhere, nose wrinkled at him.

Vergilius faltered and his good mood died a brutal death. " _What_?"

Roman frowned, hesitating. "Oh. Nothing, I guess. I just thought…"

"Princey!"

"FINALLY!" Roman shrieked, then struck a pose. "Let's do this."

After Roman finished subjecting them all to a grueling fantasy parody of _Home & Fashion _because one of the fans had the poor judgment to ask him if he had any fashion tips _and_ waxed poetic about Thomas' boyfriend for twenty minutes.

The denial in that room could kill a man—and might just, if the Unknowns didn't find a way to keep this ship afloat.

Next came the group questions.

"How are you feeling right now?"

Oh hell. Vergilius did _not_ sign up for the Feelsy-Ville Express. If this turned into a heart-to-heart, forget winning the fans over; he was _out_.

"Goo—" Patton began.

"Answer with only a song title," Thomas added, holding up a finger.

Never mind, Vergilius thought. _This_ , he could do. He barely stopped himself from rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

"'Comfortably Numb,'" Logan said, and Vergilius wondered if he knew that song was a cry for help.

Roman struck a pose. "'All I Do Is Win.'"

Vergilius was too excited for his answer to even bother rolling his eyes at him. "'I'm Not Okay,'" he told Thomas eagerly, because how _could_ he ignore that elephant in the room? People would accuse him of being Deceit if he answered with anything else. He listened to that song on his own half the time, anyway. "'(I Promise)."

"Try being, like, _fractionally_ less of an Emo Nightmare once in a while," Roman hissed at him from the corner of his mouth.

" _Make me_ , Princey," he snarked back at him, smirking.

"'I Am the Walrus'!" Patton pumped his arm cheerfully, and the others stared at him in confusion.

From there, it was _Pokémon_ (Haunter was the only one terrifying enough for Vergilius' aesthetic), theoretical YouTube channels (did anyone expect Vergilius _not_ to answer with conspiracy vids? Really?), and elements from _Avatar: The Last Airbender_ (Patton nailed why Vergilius said, "Water," of course—it certainly wasn't because he was _go with the flow_ ).

It wasn't until Patton's answer of "air" that Logan tripped headfirst into a trap. "Because you're such an airhead."

"Now, I know you meant to hurt my feelings," Patton started, and Vergilius couldn't fight the smirk that crawled across his face, "but I'm just so proud of you that you made a _Dad Joke_!"

Logan's response was _definitely_ getting cut out of the final video.

Then it was favorite social media platforms and trying to teach Patton how to say "adulthood"—and another accidental pun from Logan.

"What do you all do to relax after a tough day?" Thomas read off his phone.

"Dramatically serenade myself in the mirror," Roman said with way more seriousness than his unwrinkled face could pull off.

Logan volunteered, "Puzzles"—Vergilius wondered how anything with a bunch of tiny things you needed to keep perfect track of could ever be _relaxing_ —and Patton conspiratorially whispered about cookies to the imaginary camera, eyes literally twinkling.

"I usually go and sit on a surface that isn't meant to be sat on," Vergilius said with a shrug. "Because when tomorrow comes, I will be faced with even more challenges, and I am too overwhelmed to worry about what _is_ and _is not_ a chair."

Thomas stared at him.

"What?"

"You know I was feeling good today, right?"

Vergilius scowled and ducked his face.

They also negotiated a gag for Thomas' most embarrassing moment—Patton would blurt it out after everyone had assured him they'd spare him the public humiliation, but it had to be agreed-upon ahead of time—and favorite bands, to which only Vergilius replied with an approved answer (after a good three minutes trying to pick from his list).

And then it was back to Vergilius. "Can you name one nice thing about all of us?"

"What?"

Thomas shrugged and gestured with the phone. "It's the question."

Vergilius growled under his breath. "Oh, shit. Okay, uh…" He looked around the room.

Patton beamed at him, bouncing on his heels like a little kid with heart-shaped freckles littered over his nose. Vergilius remembered the first time he appeared as Anxiety, scared and confused with the only person—Side—thing—offering him any reassurance being the same one he'd always believed was the heart—pun intended—of their problems. If Patton could just accept life's grey area, then Thomas wouldn't believe entire pieces of himself were fundamentally evil and banish them to his Subconscious.

But Patton was also a source of Thomas' positivity and hope. He wanted to help him—help _everyone_ —so much, it kind of ached when you talked to him. He welcomed Anxiety, the agreed-upon antagonist, and encouraged him to fight for his place at the table. Maybe not the way Vergilius _wished_ he would. Defanging him to make him agreeable wasn't Vergilius' idea of an inclusive family, but Patton meant well. You could tell that, just by talking to him.

Ironically, Vergilius thought, even though Patton was the biggest reason the Unknowns had ever been cast out, he might be their ticket back in.

"Dad," he began, and Patton brightened at the nickname. The words caught in his throat before he could force them out, so he settled on, "You make Logic furious, and that is fun to watch… _even_ though you're a clueless moron the rest of the time."

What could Vergilius say? He was allergic to sentiment.

"Logic." Vergilius turned to Logan, who studied him with his arms crossed. He struggled to find the words.

When Thomas refused to even acknowledge Vergilius, Logan reminded him to be cautious, to think ahead, to stay alive. When Vergilius couldn't break through the barriers in place enough to protect him, Logan picked up the pieces.

Logan had always recognized the value in Vergilius' suggestions, and curbed them when they became extreme. He acted as translator before Vergilius could speak for himself. He'd stayed sensible and rational, even with all the pressure in the world to change his ways and simplify Vergilius to the evil thing everyone wanted him to be.

Logan was Switzerland in the war between Known and Unknown, but all it would take was one team swaying him, and they would win.

"You understand reality better than the other two," Vergilius summarized, "and that is comforting—even though you're a clueless moron the rest of the time."

"How dare you," Logan said flatly.

"Princey."

Vergilius considered the Side who reminded him the most of Remus while he was stuck topside with a bunch of infuriating pastels and bright lights, even if that could be a stretch a lot of the time. If any Known was even _capable_ of being scary, it would have to be Roman with that giant, polished katana he always swung around. Wasn't he styled after a _European prince_? What was with the ancient Eastern weaponry?

"I must say, you _do_ impress me," Vergilius decided, "by being a clueless moron _all_ of the time."

Roman squawked.

"And Thomas—"

"Spare me the compliment," he said.

That was for the better, Vergilius decided, as complimenting his center would have probably reduced him to tears. He shrugged. "Cool."

After Logan answered if his gay awakening had been Spock or Data, Thomas dropped a bombshell. "What are all of your _real_ names?" he asked, locking eyes with each of them.

Vergilius froze. "Wait, what?"

"Oh, you mean like Logic's is Logan?" Patton asked eagerly.

" _Exactly_." Thomas' eyes danced with anticipation.

Vergilius felt his collar tighten around his throat. "Who told him about names?"

No one acknowledged him.

"Well, shucks, kiddo, if that's what you wanted, all you had to do was ask! Mine's Patton, but everyone just calls me Dad."

"And _I_ am the splendiferous Roman!" He struck an overblown pose, too, almost like he hadn't broken the Extra Meter just by _breathing_.

And then everyone was staring at Vergilius, who suddenly understood, with perfect empathy, how a deer felt staring into the headlights of certain death.

"No," he said.

"What?" Thomas startled.

"But we've all told Thomas our names," Logan protested. "He is our center, even if Patton was ill-advised to confide mine without my consent."

Patton winced hard enough to throw his whole body into it. "Sorry!"

"Don't be even more a stormy buzzkill than you already are, Anxiety. Just tell him your name!"

Vergilius felt a stab of irritation light in his chest. " _No_ ," he growled. His name had been something he spent _months,_ even _years_ searching for. He'd worn a dozen hats that all felt too big or too small. He'd itched inside the title "Anxiety," blustered against a litany of imperfect alternatives, and _finally_ discovered the one that quelled the storm raging in him every time he thought about his identity. It was private. It was personal. It was downright _spiritual_ if you wanted to go there.

Despite the anxiety clawing hot and wild through his throat, Vergilius held firm. They couldn't bully him into submitting the summation of his _being_ over for mockery.

"I'm not going to tell you my real name," Vergilius snarled, "because I don't _have to_. Moving on."

Thomas hunched over his phone, head ducked in a bodily _yikes._ "Uh…yeah, I'm just gonna cut out your names with sound effects when I record this," he told Patton and Roman. "Try to, uh…bring them up a little more organically, in the…the series. Yep. So…oh, this is a good one! What emoji represents you the best?"

The conversation remained awkward and tense until Thomas asked them each what their favorite _Disney_ movie was and instructed them to sing a song from it. Patton bogeyed to "Winnie the Poof." Vergilius expected Logan to refuse the exercise outright, or cheat like he did with one of the few _Disney_ movies with no musical numbers in it.

Instead, he said, "My favorite _Disney_ movie is _Big Hero 6_ —" No surprise there. "—which contains the song 'Immortals' by _Fall Out Boy_. I do not sing, so I will recite a lyric from it. 'They say we are what we are.' That's enough of that."

Then Roman declared he would regale them with the entire musical anthology of _Disney_ , and Patton mercifully saved them by hijacking the first syllable of "Someday, My Prince Will Come" and turning it into "All Star" by Smash Mouth. Even Logan rapped along to that one. Roman leaving in outrage was just the cherry atop the sundae for Virgil.

"Logan! What was the biggest mistake you've made?" Thomas asked

"Oh!" Patton jumped up and down with his hand in the air. "He misused 'infinitesimal' last week!"

Logan's eyes bugged out of his head. Vergilius tried to remember this. "Shut it," he warned.

"He thought it meant really big, but it _actually_ means really small."

"That was one time!" Logan yelled and Vergilius jumped fifty feet into the air and hissed at him like a cat. "And how did you know what it meant?"

"I know big words."

Logan drew a deep breath. "Well, Morality corrected me today. Black is white, up is down, and I'm going to go reevaluate my purpose."

"And I thought Roman was extra," Vergilius muttered, but no one heard him as Logan sunk out.

"Well…" Thomas made a face at his phone. "We are staring to lose our interviewees."

Vergilius thought about it for a second. The fans liked him, the others had at least respected his choice to keep his name private, and it was the first time this whole thing hadn't felt utterly pointless.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm actually getting into this." He smirked at Thomas. "Bring it on."

"All right!" Thomas brightened. "So, Anxiety, if you had to kiss any of the others—?"

"And I am _out_!"

Vergilius reappeared in his room and stared dumbfoundedly at the wall. He didn't bother suppressing the smile forging its way across his face, splitting it in half. He flopped back into the bed, meeting Charlotte's many onyx eyes.

And then, in the least dignified, un-angsty moment of his existence, _squealed_ and flailed about in overwhelming delight.

 _Maybe_ , he dared think hopefully, _just maybe, I can do this after all._

* * *

"Congratulation _sss_ ," someone hissed in Vergilius' ear.

He launched seventy feet into the air with a strangled screech and landed again with a hiss. His headphones thumped on the mattress beside him.

He found Deceit with his arms crossed at the side of his bed, eyebrow arched and costume pristine. Deceit, more than any other Side besides maybe Logan, liked neatness; the day you found a wrinkle in his capelet was the day you knew the apocalypse would come. Still, today's impeccable outfit looked a little _too_ impeccable. Even his hat balanced _perfectly_ atop his crown, despite him tilting his head to the side to favor Vergilius with silent sarcasm. His hat was _always_ askew.

Then Vergilius remembered the argument at dinner and it made a lot more sense.

"You won over the fans."

Vergilius tried to read Deceit's tone. He couldn't. It hummed with painful neutrality. "I guess." Vergilius swallowed. It felt like choking down a squirrel. He shut that avenue of thought down hard before it could spiral; the last thing he needed right now was Remus turning the tension into a rave.

"You completed step one." Still, Deceit betrayed nothing.

"I guess."

"Thomas is more amicable toward you, as well."

Vergilius tugged at his hoodie strings. Could interpersonal tension suffocate you? Could it suffocate a Side? He had a feeling he was about to find out. "I guess."

"Your room is attempting to migrate to the Conscious Mind."

Vergilius flinched. "I guess."

"Wow, Anxiety, you're just so _verbose_ today," Deceit said bitingly, the sudden burst of sarcasm scalding next to his neutral tones. "Please, spare a little language for the rest of us."

Vergilius ducked his head. He stared at his spiderweb quilts. Apprehension clawed at his throat, demanding he relent to Deceit's will and _speak_ , but he couldn't force any sound out.

Deceit sighed and sat on the foot of Vergilius' bed. Vergilius scrambled back against the headboard. Deceit rolled his eyes. "Honestly. You're the closest to an ally I have in this. Hurting you would just be counterproductive."

Vergilius noted the word "ally." Deceit's anxiety over "losing him" hadn't seemed anchored in any sort of contractual relationship; it felt personal. You didn't _feel anxiety_ over things that weren't personal.

Then again, he _was_ called Deceit. Could Vergilius trust anything he said? Could he even trust him when he called Vergilius an ally? When he promised not to hurt him?

Vergilius felt like he stood in a minefield with a couple trapdoors thrown in for good measure. Only a handful of steps would be safe; the rest would end in complete disaster.

And Deceit refused to give him a map.

Had Vergilius' room shrunk? It felt claustrophobic. The cobwebs were growing over the walls and _them_. Deceit methodically plucked them off his costume, dusting it off.

Had Deceit forgotten about the dinner? Vergilius would have been humiliated if someone had spied his internal thoughts like that. Vergilius _had_ been. It was still hard to meet Remus' eyes after Vergilius accidentally summoned him during that last spiral. Were they just not going to address the elephant in the room?

"They asked you about your name," Deceit said, a strange light in his eyes, and just like that, Vergilius' anxiety had a new fixation.

"What?" _Great_ , Vergilius thought. Deceit was going to murder him in _his room_ just because he sneaked around behind his back and gave himself a name. "I don't know—I mean, yeah, because I guess they all have names, but that's not—"

Deceit stared levelly at him. "So, you don't have a name besides 'Anxiety'?"

Oh shit. "Uh…I mean…"

"I know you're lying," Deceit said. "You lie most of the time anymore. There's not much you do nowadays that doesn't overlap with my purview."

Vergilius tensed.

Deceit rolled his eyes. "Your entire _function_ as Thomas' Side anymore is rooted in an ulterior motive," he reminded him, "or have you forgotten why you began participating in their little _debates_ in the first place?"

Vergilius averted his gaze. A two-pronged spear of guilt plunged into his chest: guilt over lying to Thomas and the others, and guilt because a part of him _hadn't_ been. He knew those two things contradicted each other, but that didn't make either false. The real danger lied in their coexistence—and in the terror of how Deceit would react if he ever learned about Vergilius' room in the Conscious Mind.

Unless he already knew. _"There's not much you do nowadays that doesn't overlap with my purview."_

Vergilius shuddered. He'd never feel alone with his own thoughts again.

"How did you choose a name?"

The question caught Vergilius off-guard. He glanced at Deceit. Once again, he looked about as expressive as a white slate. For a while, they held each other's gazes silently. The tension was suffocating. The webs encroached on them, sticking to their arms, crawling up their limbs, their torsos, until Deceit had disappeared inside a spiderweb cocoon.

Charlotte, Anansi, Aragog and Kumonga waited for Vergilius' permission to devour him, each the size of a basketball, swollen fangs dripping with hunger.

Suddenly, Deceit shoved to his feet. Vergilius jumped. Delicate spider silk snapped audibly.

Deceit paced across the room and smoothed his capelet. "Oh, never mind," he said, a little too quickly. Something tugged on Vergilius' gut. _Embarrassment._ "It wasn't like I cared to know any—"

"Wait." Vergilius shifted forward, already questioning whether he should do this. The webs seemed to pulse, retreating, and then expanding in response to his shaky courage. "No, I…I'll tell you. If you really…really want to know."

Deceit hesitated, considering, then faced him. Vergilius felt an almost overwhelming tug on his gut while he forced himself to meet his eyes. Something looked off about them.

Deceit didn't respond for a moment before scoffing and flicking his wrist. "Oh, do whatever you want. I don't care."

Were those…were those eyebags? Where had Deceit gotten dark circles? He had been the picture of perfection when he first got here, but now dark grey, almost black smears dragged down his face, texturizing weird over his scales, making him look even more demented than he naturally did.

It hit Vergilius what was happening almost too late.

" _Get out_!" he shrieked.

Alarms blared. Deceit jumped, head snapping around with the franticness of a wild animal, and Vergilius crashed into him, dragging him down, down— _farther_ —no _, harder_ —into the communal hall.

They tumbled free in a mad scramble of limbs and curses, but for the grace of being incorporeal figments of an overactive imagination avoiding serious injury. Vergilius rolled away, panting. His heart—again with the nonsensical physiological responses to stimuli, Thomas—hammered against his ribs. He doubted he'd be anything less than on constant high alert for the next month, if not longer.

As sweet mercy would have it, Deceit and Vergilius appeared to be alone in the living room. Deceit recovered with obnoxious ease, rising to his feet like he was floating on air.

Never tell Roman, but a stab of competitiveness roared to life inside Vergilius, so he stood like a vampire would from its coffin in one of those old _Dracula_ films. Deceit didn't seem to notice the extra effort, which— _rude_. Vergilius had probably just saved his fragmented piece of Thomas' whole sanity, so a little gratitude wouldn't kill him.

Well, maybe it would. He was the embodiment of selfishness, after all.

Deceit stared at him. His eyes fluttered so hard, Vergilius wondered if he was trying to push off the ground with his eyelashes. What would that even take? Vergilius wondered. Could Logan run the calculations of how much effort it would take for Deceit to get airborne from blinking? What kind of damage would that do to a human body?

"Hi, Dee-Dee!" Remus strode over to the couch, falling into it. "Hi, Spiky!"

He snapped his fingers and the most horrifying ottoman imaginable appeared, assembled from a mixture of bones and human skin. It squelched when he kicked his feet up on it. Gooey stuffing leaked from the seams, and Vergilius suspected the horrifying smell filling the room was the unholy union of fecal matter, blood, and piss.

"Oh God!" Vergilius cried, frantically waving the smell out of his face. "Gross, man! C'mon!"

"Oh, thank you," Deceit said, summoning an extra arm to pinch his nostrils closed while he applauded with his dominant hands. "Thank you, Remus. How did you know that was exactly what we needed? Thank you _so much_."

Remus grinned toothily and started pulling his intestines out his nose. Vergilius and Deceit exchanged a look—Deceit with his eyebrows arched, Vergilius with his face slack from disbelief—and _something_ shifted in the air between them. It was like the electricity and tension and everything that had been building up since Vergilius infiltrated the Knowns _evaporated_ , and the only thing remaining was Remus being his classic brand of _utterly fucking insane._

Vergilius cracked first, choking on a snort. He tensed, afraid of Deceit's reaction—until Deceit caught his eyes and _cackled_ like an evil genius. The next thing any of them knew, Remus had summoned a DJ to play techno music over an orgy.

By the time Rage stormed downstairs to demand what they were doing, they had trashed the place. Rage's superior rant about needing a lobotomy to escape living in an insane asylum devolved into senseless dance demolition after Remus goosed him with a tentacle.

It was exactly as weird as it sounds.

* * *

Later that night, Thomas' anxieties, which had long cast shadows over his relationship, descended—like a tsunami after it had been frozen overheard for hours, days, weeks, months, _years_ ; like a flock of vultures to pick the flesh from the miserable carcass of Thomas' love; like the rain after an ominous grey cloud cover. It came down all at once, with a great roar, and it flooded everything in sight. Nothing was spared.

Not even him.

It ended in screams and tears, and then silence: an outstretched hand, overflowing eyes of pain, regret, and guilt. A farewell kiss.

And then, nothing.

The Mindscape howled.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sides grieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Modified horror monsters, implied/referenced torture, lots and lots of grief, dissociation, PTSD-related symptoms (triggered panic attack, flashback, hypervigilance). It's all kept as light as I can keep it, but just be aware if you continue.
> 
> The passage with dissociation is bolded. A summary will be included at the end.

"I tell myself that I don't miss you at all. / I'm not lying, denying that I feel so much better / now that you're gone forever." ~ "Gone Forever" by _Three Days Grace_

* * *

* * *

HOW DID EVERYONE REACT TO THOMAS' MOST CRUSHING PERSONAL LOSS IN YEARS, if not his entire life? Well…

Remus created bigger, bolder, braver, uglier monsters and torture devices. A hydra with extra limbs, opposable thumbs, _and_ giant wings? A sphinx with a mane of pure fire? A cockatrice with poisonous fangs that didn't make sense in its beak, but could somehow poison you—meaning Rage—all the same? He conjured it all: a supernatural petting zoo of holy horrors to demolish the Mindscape and anyone who got in their way.

Rage, meanwhile, borrowed from Thomas' understanding of medieval torture devices to fill the Subconscious: an Iron Maiden, a rack, a metal chair covered in spikes held suspended over a furnace. In or on each of the heinous torture devices sat a familiar face who screamed his way through death. All the while, his torturer and executioner stood by, eye blazing like an uncontrolled, miniature sun, scalp fountaining lava, and stony features glistening with moisture—from tears or perspiration, Vergilius would never know.

**Vergilius searched everywhere for a place to hide from the screams and the howls and the shrieks and the bellows. He found a ditch carved like a canyon through the green-tinted Subconscious and dove into it, splashing into a river of blood that carried him away, as his mind numbed and he drifted on a cottony cloud of unreality.**

**Dumbly, he remembered his hoodie yanking taut against his throat, as if caught on something; then a tug; then cool hands, slick with blood yet rough with purchase, gripped his arm. Unthinkingly, he reached up a hand, curled fingers around a jagged juncture of rock, held tight, and strained. One after another, and then rope, and then he was on solid ground, but still adrift on that cottony cloud, enveloped by a noxious green mist that filled his lungs and his head and his veins. He was lighter than air and sicker than carbon monoxide poisoning.**

**Determined tugging. He staggered with his savior—or maybe his killer; the jury was still out. His feet tripped over each other. A black and white tapestry. He remembers seeing a set of scales on it, but the memory is fuzzy. A staircase across and around.**

**And then—**

Vergilius gasped, clutching his chest. He fell forward to his hands and knees, choking on oxygen—or whatever gas Sides breathed. Vergilius wasn't sure he wanted to know. If Remus had any control over it, it couldn't be pleasant.

Just as the shock and panic began to fade, though, something _else_ twisted in Vergilius' gut. He moved on instinct, lunging up and over. Deceit fell back, cane skidding out of reach, and grunted harshly, and Vergilius didn't even have the time to process that he had been his savior—or that they were both still covered in the blood from Remus' nightmare river—before flattening them both to the ground as something screamed overhead.

Vergilius looked around, heart hammering against his ribs. Inconstant walls, undulating and bending and shifting color and opacity at random. The light levels fluctuated, always hovering somewhere between the darkness of the Subconscious and the glare of the Conscious Mind. An endless maze that stretched on forever in all directions, bearing no resemblance at all to anywhere in Thomas' house or even his _life_. Furniture and walls that didn’t look the same two seconds in a row. Recognition dawned on Vergilius in a wash of cold, raw terror and he looked down at Deceit. 

" _Limbo_?" he screeched. "You brought us to _Limbo_?" Before Deceit could respond, Vergilius' gut twisted and he cried, "Move!"

They rolled out of the way as a colorful, flaming knot descended on where they'd been just seconds ago. The crater smoked, debris flying everywhere. "Remus _didn't_ have complete control of the Subconscious!" Deceit yelled at Vergilius. "You were vulnerable there!"

"And I'm not vulnerable _here_?" Vergilius shoved Deceit out of the way and took debris in the arm, crying out. "Thomas just broke up with his boyfriend! He's nothing _but_ emotional turmoil right now! This place will rip us apart!"

"So will the Subconscious!" Deceit saw the next ball of Torment coming and ducked. It blasted the wall behind him to smithereens and he grunted. "How did you _survive_ this place for so many years?"

Vergilius grabbed him by the caplet and yanked him after him, racing and ducking and weaving past and through balls of Torment. Limbo’s winds picked up until they ripped at Vergilius’ and Deceit’s clothes, shredding them and scalding their faces. Vergilius moved on autopilot, never releasing his grip on Deceit's caplet, until he turned the last corner and slid into a familiar, dark alcove that immediately expanded when they dropped down to show a large room, with several _stable_ walls dividing it into areas.

Vergilius and Deceit panted, standing there, staring. They could still hear Limbo tear itself apart outside, but while they were here, the Torment couldn't reach them. Not the same way. They'd be safe.

It took a while for Vergilius' heart rate to get back under control. His instincts still reeled. Limbo was a full-time gig for him. If Deceit had asked him before dragging him here, he would have told him "fuck no" without a second's thought, but now they were stuck until Thomas calmed down enough for Limbo to be traversable again. As the terror finally faded enough to let Vergilius _think_ , he assessed his surroundings—starting with Deceit.

He watched him unreadably, stare contemplative and unyielding, and even though Vergilius hadn’t totally recovered from the first two panic attacks, he felt another build in his chest. An intense light shined in Deceit's eyes. Gratitude? Vergilius had just led him through a battleground to safety. He would have been blasted to bits a dozen times over by Thomas' Torment if he hadn't knocked him to the ground a hundred some-odd times. They'd still be dodging emotional cannonballs if it wasn't for him. One could hope that Deceit might be grateful for the help. But this was _Deceit_ , after all, and since when could Deceit even acknowledge when he'd messed up? Since when did he say "thank you" or "you're welcome" or "I'm sorry" unless he was being sarcastic? 

He had his cane again, Vergilius noted. Leave it to Deceit to _always_ somehow find his way back to that thing. You'd think it was his baby, what with how he treated it. Vergilius watched him, heart racing, praying for a response _soon_. Deceit watched him back. No one breathed.

But then Deceit broke the silence. "You _shouldn't_ thank me for getting you out of there," he said, turning his face away dismissively. "Remus' creative binges clearly _aren't_ mutually exclusive with your purview, and Rage _wasn't_ on a rampage."

Rudely, Vergilius flashed back to screams of terror and pain. Compared to Limbo, it shouldn't have affected him, but he found himself wrapping his arms around his gut for comfort anyway. His jacket squelched, and he glanced down to see it soaked with blood. He remembered Remus' nightmare river and gagged. Several terrifying minutes passed of him struggling to snap his fingers, but the slick fluid made it almost impossible. Jagged breaths stuttered past his lips the longer it took, until finally— _blissfully_ —the blood disappeared.

Vergilius calmed himself and looked back at Deceit, only to falter and stare when he noticed his gloves were still a shiny crimson. The rest of him appeared as impeccable as ever, but whenever he flexed his fingers, he left translucent streaks of red across the striking gold head of his cane. Something about that contrast chilled Vergilius even more than usual, and he cowered beneath ruby eyes.

After a moment's hesitation, Vergilius took a chance. "Why, uh…?" He gestured at Deceit's hands. "Why haven't you cleaned your gloves?"

Vergilius could have sworn he glimpsed fear flicker across heterochromatic eyes and felt a familiar _tug_ toward Deceit, but it all faded too quickly to say, replaced with that classic collectedness.

"Haven't you heard of 'tit for tat,' Anxiety?" Deceit purred, brandishing his left hand. His stare struck Vergilius as the gaze of a bored predator, playing with its prey before it made the kill.

Vergilius took a deep breath and snapped his fingers again. Deceit's gloves reverted to bright yellow.

Deceit hummed approvingly. "Terribly done, Anxiety. You're welcome."

That one took Vergilius a moment to interpret, and even after he translated the words for himself, he wondered if Deceit had meant the original, after all. "Thanks for, uh…bailing me out," he said, stiff and awkward. He mostly meant it. When there are only three options for Sides, one is completely off-limits to Deceit, one is a nightmarish hell-scape of pain and grief, and one is a storming battleground except for one tiny area of peace and quiet...you make a split-second decision and you stick with it, even if it wasn't the best call.

"It was my burden," Deceit told Vergilius.

Was he going to talk like this the entire time? Vergilius didn't mind it when he used sarcastic emphasis every other word; the obvious lies translated easily enough through his Bullshit Deceit Translator, but this obscure talk made it a lot harder to figure out, and Deceit didn't betray much in his tone. Most of the time, he could count on silky sarcasm from Deceit; today, he found indecipherable neutrality, and it frightened him.

Vergilius shook it off and breathed deeply. He didn't see the point in obsessing over every word and tonal shift he heard from Deceit; he'd never run out of things to drive himself insane with. Instead, he preoccupied himself with studying his surroundings.

Careful, mindful walls erected at defensible points, to shield and hide and harbor in the storm, and mislead. Dark, constant. Some furniture, but barely any. A picture frame of Thomas' family when he was so little, he barely reached his father's knee. Candles scattered around at random, flames flickering but undying--little night lights through the inconstant horror of their surroundings. Claw marks in places, well-tread areas on the tile. It didn't look like anywhere Thomas had ever known in his life, but it looked like everywhere a person could live he'd ever heard of. Simple. Possessing the bare minimum. Everything a lonely Side could need except companionship.

Vergilius drifted forward in a daze. 

His feet carried him to a familiar crevice carved out from a corner. Still tucked away there were the indecipherable chicken-scratch journals and the lumpy nests of blankets and stuffed animals. Vergilius crumpled beneath the imprint still hanging heavy there. It stank of despair, of loneliness, of isolation and blind terror, of weeks and months spent pleading with an unfeeling God to end your misery before the itching and the aching and the Changing could consume you.

Vergilius hunched over, breaths raspy and uneven. Already, his entire body shook with the force of these horrific memories, and yet, for some unknowable reason, he reached forward and selected a dusty journal entry from amongst its messy brethren.

Immortalized in streaks of ink was the memory that started it all: a strange man well into his forties talked to Thomas longer than he should have and didn't stop, no matter how uncomfortable he became, until his mother saw and chased him off. She then explained to a rattled Thomas that some adults hurt little kids.

Unbeknownst to anyone, that day had been the birth of Paranoia: a Side consumed with thoughts of creepy child predators and impossible terrors with more ties to cartoons than reality.

"Do you remember when I found you here?"

Vergilius screamed, ducking into the alcove. He whirled with his teeth bared and peered through the crack at Deceit, who looked down at him with a tilted head and raised eyebrow.

Vergilius studied him distrustfully while he waited for his nerves to calm. It took him a moment to realize—with a rude shock—that he didn't wear a glove on his left hand. The skin was smooth, the fingers well-manicured with black and yellow nail art. He held the glove in his other hand, still concealed beneath yellow fabric.

"I'd acquired a handful of Simple Sides from Limbo, but they all Faded within days," Deceit narrated. "You were the first I found with longevity." Deceit turned to him. "You were alone when we met. You'd been abandoned here for who knows how long, with barely any reliable access to Thomas. You'd been blocked out, ignored and denied."

Vergilius hugged himself tightly, recoiling. "You don't have to remind me." Memories filtered through a veil; he might not Fear or Paranoia anymore, but they would always be _parts_ of him. Their trauma was _his_ trauma—and they had a lot of trauma. "And you didn't find me _here_..." Vergilius stopped. "Did you?" Suddenly, he couldn't remember that clearly.

"You'd gone exploring," Deceit reminded him, "and greeted me by burying your machete in my chest."

Vergilius winced. Paranoia had always been just a _little_ trigger-happy.

"But you survived here," Deceit said. "Against all odds." Vergilius met Deceit's eyes and found them blazing with something unnamable. "You adapted. You learned how to make do with what you had and you made the most of it." Vergilius leaned away from him. Deceit had always been somewhat mercurial, but these unpredictable mood swings took the cake. "What changed?"

Vergilius didn't hear a capitalization in his voice, but then he did. As if the C could be lowercase _and_ uppercase simultaneously, meaning two different and similar things at the same time. It scraped against his insides a little, and he gulped.

"Nothing," he lied, even though he knew Deceit could sense it, because he also knew what he wanted to hear, and he had to pacify the predator in front of him. "I'm still that Side. Nothing changed." When Vergilius spoke, it _was_ lowercase, beyond any shadow of a doubt.

Deceit moved suddenly, and Vergilius launched back, but he just threw his cane into the air, catching it with a chokehold at the middle. He strode a few feet away and braced against the wall. It shifted and rippled against his back, but he paid it no mind.

"What do you know about existentialist philosophy?" he asked.

Vergilius' neck might snap from whiplash, with all these unpredictable subject changes. "Do I look like Logan?" He paused briefly. "Or you?"

"It proposes that the universe is indifferent, and there is no inherent meaning to life," Deceit began, and Vergilius sighed inwardly, "only the meaning a person divines through their choices. Do you know why Thomas' relationship fell apart?"

Vergilius took a sharp breath. "Can you pick a topic and _stick to it_?"

Deceit's eyes flashed toward him, and he gave ground. "I _am_. You're just not letting me finish."

Vergilius hesitated, then fell silent and listened.

"Thomas makes choices with a blindfold on," Deceit continued, "and even then, he makes very few. He relegates half of us to the back of his mind, denying we affect him at all. He ignores you as much as he can. He listens to three parts of himself, and those three are utter buffoons who buy the ludicrous rhetoric society brainwashes them with."

Vergilius didn't see how this applied to Thomas' relationship, until he did. "Thomas wasn't a whole person," he said under his breath, then looked up at Deceit. "He couldn't be enough for him because he still doesn't know who he really is."

"Human existence is the endless pursuit of meaning," Deceit told him appreciatively. "It means forever chasing 'who you really are,' but one thing is certain: we divine meaning from our choices and nothing else. No one can complete us. No one can erase life's hardships and smooth our jagged edges. We are the only ones who can change ourselves, for the better, the worse, or for neither."

Vergilius studied him carefully, selecting his response with care. That was what Deceit wanted from him, after all—what he expected of him. "I thought you didn't believe in good and bad."

"I said better or worse," Deceit corrected. "Two words founded upon the awareness that everything is relative; what is better for Thomas could be worse for someone else." Vergilius leaned into the wall and slowly slid down. Deceit sat next to him. "The Knowns are already deluding themselves about this," he told him. "Discussion of the breakup will be forbidden by the time they call you again."

"Okay," Vergilius said, gaze fixed ahead. "Should I force it?"

"It wouldn't hinder or aid our efforts," Deceit said. "So, I suppose—"

"It's my choice." In a moment of uncharacteristic boldness, Vergilius tore his gaze from the shifty walls to lock eyes with his snake-faced leader. "Being the bad guy isn't working, Deceit. It's making things worse."

Deceit faltered and turned to him. His yellow eye flashed. "Don't be ludicrous, Anxiety," he told him. "There is a difference between your not wanting to be Thomas' villain and that technique being unsuccessful. You are the fan favorite. He summons you for almost every existential crisis he has. It's working spectacularly; don't fix something that isn't broken."

Vergilius hung his head in resignation. He supposed existentialism was for real people; not fragments of their personality actively deceiving them on behalf of other fragments of their personality.

The roar beyond the alcove died down, and Vergilius knew the storm had cooled. Thomas wasn't _as_ grief-stricken anymore, which meant the Subconscious would be safer, too.

Deceit tugged his left glove back on and shoved to his feet through a mirage. Apparently, Fear's Alcove had been abandoned so long, it no longer sheltered the same from the destructive power of Limbo.

Deceit looked down at Vergilius. "We _shouldn't_ get back," he said. "Much longer here, we might find ourselves bleeding into each other, and I'm _sure_ you would much appreciate being the center of Thomas' capacity for deception—and I would just _love_ being Anxiety." He offered his hand.

Vergilius stared.

Deceit had spoken simply, straightforwardly, the entire time he didn't wear his glove, but the second he put it back on, he started talking backwards again. Vergilius may not have been the smart Side, but that didn't mean he was completely daft. He knew how those puzzle pieces fit together.

He just didn't like the picture they formed.

Vergilius gulped and accepted Deceit's hand.

* * *

" _Please_ tell me you're joking," Vergilius groused, looming over Thomas as he prepared to uncap a dry erase marker and illustrate his life story.

Thomas jumped with a strangled screech. " _What_? I'm trying to film a video here, Anxiety! Jeez." He flipped the power switch on the camera and the red light went out. "What is it this time?"

" _Illustrate My Autobiography_ ," Vergilius deadpanned. "You just substituted in fancier words for _Draw My Life._ "

Thomas stopped and blinked down at the whiteboard. Sheepishly, he wiped away the words and moved to change them.

" **Wait**!" Vergilius' voice magnified again. "What are you doing?"

"Changing…the…name?" Thomas eyed him uncertainly. "I mean, you're right. I thought it sounded familiar, but—"

"Do you _really_ want to rehash what's already been seventy-billion times by way better artists than _you_ , Thomas?" Vergilius loomed over, and Thomas wilted. Guilt flared in his chest briefly; Thomas didn't need this, not after what he'd just lost, not when Vergilius wanted to work _with him_ instead of _against him_ , but this was how it had to be. "Do you think that's what your _fans_ want to see?"

Thomas' eyes flicked down to the table, worry dawning on him while he chewed his lip. "I…I don't know."

"I'm gonna go ahead and say _no_ ," Vergilius stressed, crossing his arms.

" _Ugh_ , why are you being like this?" Thomas whirled on him. "You were so _chill_ the last couple of videos."

Vergilius felt that hit like one of Remus' throwing stars. "Well, sometimes, I just gotta be me," he muttered darkly.

" _Don't fix what isn't broken,"_ Deceit had advised. Vergilius was getting sick of listening to him.

Thomas made another noise of disgust. "I wanna be mad, but…" He sighed. "You're right. The idea isn't original." Thomas braced his face in his hands with a quiet scream of frustration. "What am I gonna do now?"

"One option—just throwing this out there, bear with me—is to…hide under the covers until the sun goes away."

That would easier, overall, wouldn't it? Thomas could respond to heartbreak like a normal, healthy, un-repressed human, hide out from the pressure of the real world for a while, and maybe then, he'd actually be okay instead of outrunning his pain with hackneyed video ideas and plastic smiles.

"Not so fast, My Chemically Imbalanced Romance!"

Vergilius knew Roman would show up for this; anyone coming after Thomas' livelihood incurred the wrath of his defensive and overly sensitive ego. He planned on it, even, and he assessed Roman's condition carefully when he rose up. Aggressively red sash pressed over his chest; stark white uniform; perfect hair. The only thing Vergilius could see outside his usual was the briefest shine of foundation on his face, but a rosy dusting over his eyes suggested that was a deliberate bedazzling for the purposes of exploring just how extra he could get.

Vergilius covered his assessment with a glare. "Oh, great, it's Prince Underarm Stink." Not his best, he had to admit, but he wasn't trying today; none of them were.

"Well, that was hardly inventive," Roman observed, striking a pose with his arms held perpendicular to each other against his chest.

"I've gotta admit—" Thomas started to add, but Vergilius cut him off.

"Look, Creativity is not my department. It's _yours_." Vergilius didn't feel too bad about squaring up with Roman; they'd never gotten along anyway, and it would feel weirder if he didn't insult him every chance he got. If no one would address the elephant in the room named Crippling Depression, then Vergilius would just carry on like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Roman rolled his eyes and looked at Thomas. "So, Negative Nancy went and shot down the idea I gave you, did he?"

"Looks like it." Thomas dragged his hands down his face, and Vergilius winced, a stab of sympathy almost bowling him over. Thomas hadn't slept well since the breakup. How long did he think he could go on like this?

"Chalk one up for me," Vergilius muttered halfheartedly.

"I'm gonna need you to be _real_ quiet now," Roman cut in, closing his hand in the shape of a beak, "because you just earned the number one spot in my done-zo list today."

Vergilius rolled his eyes and decided to leave that gigantic opening be; Roman wouldn't catch it, and Thomas' ego needed a break after the colossal whooping it had just taken and would continue to take until everyone figured out it was time to name the massive, metaphorical purple elephant in the room.

Thomas and Roman bantered back and forth with Roman's insecurities rearing their ugly heads in the form of accusations—that Thomas had been sidelining him, that he hadn't given him his chance to shine, that he'd been a spectator character and Thomas wasn't listening to him. Vergilius resisted the urge to scoff. Poor Princey and his delicate ego; if he spent one _day_ in Vergilius' shoes, he'd probably combust.

But then Roman took it somewhere Vergilius _knew_ he should have seen coming from a mile off and somehow hadn't.

"Thomas, I need you to _trust me_ —your passion, your drive, your Creativity—completely, without hesitation or doubts. I need you to…" He paused for dramatic effect. "—grant me full creative control!"

Vergilius choked hard, eyes flaring wide. He'd _just_ escaped from one of Remus' Lovecraftian sex-fueled nightmares. He still hadn't screwed his head back on gay enough to undergo _another_ Daydream Mode. Chances were, Roman's pretty and bright version would fuck him up even worse than Remus'.

Thomas missed the warning signs completely. "You…already have full creative control. You're my Creativity."

"That's not what he means," Vergilius cut in passionately. He didn't know how long it would take him to recover from two consecutive Daydream Modes from the different halves of Creativity. It could shut him down completely; render him nonfunctional. He didn't want to think about the danger Thomas could get into without him at one-hundred percent. "He means Daydream Mode. La-La Land. Don't do it, Thomas. This is a bad idea."

"Shut up, Mean Day!" Roman bellowed, and Vergilius launched halfway into the air from alarm. "It's harmless! And if anything goes wrong, you know you can trust your neighborhood hero to defend you!" He whipped out his katana as if to support his words.

Vergilius' blood pressure skyrocketed. "Thomas, I'm serious. Don't—"

"Thomas, if you trust me in this, I will be unimpeded. It will be a full-on _brainstorming extravaganza_!" Confetti exploded around him, a spotlight swiveled in, and trumpets started blaring.

Vergilius shied away from it. If things were already getting this bad, he wouldn't stand a chance once Daydream Mode engaged. "Thomas, I'm serious. For once in your life, will you just _trust me_?"

Thomas' eyes flicked to him, and Vergilius knew he'd fucked up. "Why should I?" Thomas demanded. "This is my livelihood, Anxiety, and you want me to throw in the towel and quit because of one little snag." He directed his full attention to Roman. "If you think this can get us that idea, Roman, then let's do it."

Vergilius' ears roared with the ocean and he stared in horror. Roman summoned Patton and Logan in various states of unwitting disarray. Vergilius' pulse raced. Patton should be unaffected by Daydream Mode, if not _flourish_ , but Logan…

"Why am I here?" Logan demanded. "I play no part in this!"

"Sucks, does it not?" Roman shot back at him.

"Ooh! Daydream Mode!" Patton clapped and jumped up and down. "We haven't done that in forever! Do I get a pet unicorn this time, Roman? Please, please, please?"

"Business first, Padre, then domesticated magical creatures!" Roman cracked his knuckles. "Let's get this party _started_."

"Please don't," Vergilius muttered, slinking back into the shadowy corner, but it was already too late.

The air tinged burgundy, the air twinkled, and violins supplied melodic ambience. As the effects of Daydream Mode expanded, Vergilius receded into a familiar cottony headspace, drifting like a speck of dust on the torrential winds of the imagination.

He watched as though through a movie screen as Roman dragged them through a series of unoriginal video concepts. He felt himself start to slide back into awareness when Logan reclaimed a fraction of control by devastating Roman in a rap battle.

Until the aura faded and Vergilius sharpened, midway through Thomas saying, "—the imperfections are what would make that content unique. We can learn and be inspired by others to create our own content."

"Very much like how you're harkening to Mark Earls' speech on originality right now," Logan interjected, and some dumb, recessive part of Vergilius noted how unbothered he looked. He couldn't tell whether he was relieved or jealous.

"Astute," Thomas noted, preening because he'd remembered a cool fact on his own.

Vergilius stared.

"Just remember, kiddo," Patton added, "it's okay to be inspired by others. It's just not okay to plagiarize."

"I know that." Thomas looked mildly insulted at the insinuation.

"I just gotta keep on you about it, kiddo." Patton's voice was warm and gentle. Vergilius studied him: smiley eyes, heart-shaped freckles sparkling a little like fairy lights on his cheeks. "It's my job. I'm really sorry if I hurt your feelings."

Vergilius didn't understand; Patton spoke with insecurity, but none of it showed on his face. How thoroughly could you even repress depression? Shouldn't the cracks show somewhere? Vergilius _knew_ Thomas wasn't okay because he lived in the hub of all his unaddressed issues, insecurities, and character flaws, so where had the Knowns hidden all their damage?

Before Vergilius could speculate too much on that, Logan quoted some Port Adam's dude about creativity or something. "'Great poets imitate and improve, whereas small ones steal and spoil."

Vergilius regained enough wherewithal to falter at that. "Wait, you're on _their_ side?" he demanded. His mind still felt mushy, but he'd been so sure Logan would ally with him. He _embodied_ perfectionism, for Christ's sake!

"Well, I've always had my doubts about creating something wholly original," Logan said, "but I'm no defeatist."

Logan said it dismissively, flippantly, unaware of how the words ran through whetstones before piercing Vergilius' ears, rushing through his veins toward his heart, slicing it to ribbons with a cacophony of shame and grief.

 _Defeatist_.

Not protector. Not guardian. Not fighter. Not warning system. _Defeatist._

Even Logic, Thomas' center for objectivity, his core of reasoning, his capacity to weigh both the pros and _cons_ of any situation—even _Logan_ , the Side Vergilius used to trust to carry his influence to Thomas when it mattered, the Side he gratefully forfeited credit to every time Thomas' welfare came under threat and someone had to pick up the slack—even _he_ thought Vergilius was superfluous. A thorn in their collective side rather than the shield he'd always prided himself as being.

For the first time, Vergilius wondered: was Logan _right_? _Was_ Vergilius the bad guy?

"Thanks, everyone," Roman said, looking a little lighter than before. The tiny cracks from before had once again disappeared "Well, almost everyone."

Vergilius didn't need to look up to feel Roman's hate. He hung his head and sank out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summarized bold section: Vergilius dives into a blood river and gets washed away. He's pulled out by a mysterious savior, drags himself to land, and is led out of the Subconscious.
> 
> Please leave what feedback you can. I really appreciate hearing from you guys and it means a lot.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of "Am I ORIGINAL?" goes...less than expected. (feat. defensive Unknown Sides)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Panic attack, grotesque imagery, threats of violence, (very) temporary character death, talk of disconcerting bathroom experiences

"Bright lights that cast a shadow, […] I get so weak." ~ "Famous Last Words" by _My Chemical Romance_

* * *

* * *

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

Somehow, despite— _yet again_ —aiming for his room in the Subconscious, Vergilius found himself blinded by the Conscious Mind. He blinked rapidly to dispel the spots in his vision. It only took a few moments to see straight—or gay—again. He considered the possibility he had begun to adapt, and soon, he would belong here as much as the Knowns.

Guilt roared to life in his chest and he killed that train of thought before it could grow. No. He belonged to the Subconscious with the others. He knew where he fit in all this: he was the spy, the interloper, the scout sent to assess the enemy before the invading forces moved in. They'd never welcome him here.

"Anxiety!"

 _Of course_ , Vergilius thought, turning to face Patton's brilliant smile. He sighed heavily and tucked his hands in his pockets. He didn't have the energy for this, but he didn't have the energy to fight it, either.

"Kiddo, I hadn't expected you! After last time…" Patton shook it off and embraced him again—and again, Vergilius short-circuited.

"Wait, you… _didn't_ summon me here?" A terrible idea occurred to him, but he refused to entertain it. There was no way.

Right?

Patton looked genuinely confused. "No. Didn't you come here yourself?"

Logan appeared a few feet to Vergilius' right. "Oh, Anxiety. Hello." Vergilius spun on him, crouched defensively. He caught the ghost of a wince fade from Logan's face, almost like his head hurt.

"Logan!" Patton cried. "Hey, kiddo, I'll get dinner ready in just a—"

"Actually, I have some work I must tend to," Logan said, and Vergilius could have sworn he glimpsed a flash of yellow in his eyes. Patton pouted at him. "I'm sorry, but I must go. Excuse me."

Logan swept up the stairwell to his room without another word.

Vergilius' mind raced. If Logan had business elsewhere—or whatever he was in such a hurry to leave for—then _he_ hadn't summoned Vergilius, either. With Patton already ruled out, that left one possibility—and Vergilius seriously doubted Roman wanted _anything_ to do with him.

Which meant _no one_ had summoned him. Vergilius _chose_ to reappear here without even knowing it.

Oceans roared in his ears—tremendous and deafening, drowning out every other train of thought—and he staggered back, crashing into the couch.

Patton cried out. Vergilius thought he could hear him calling for Logan, but he wasn't sure. He hoped not. Logan already thought he was a defeatist; if he knew how Vergilius melted down every time something threw him for a loop, he'd determine him unnecessary for sure. He'd banish him to Limbo again, where he would wither and spoil and, eventually, Fade.

He didn't want to die.

His heart hammered harder and faster, until Vergilius _knew_ , if he had ribs, it would break them. They would crack and shatter, splinters of bone flying from his chest with a geyser of blood. His heart would fall out into his hands, beating its last.

Something tugged on Vergilius the longer he lingered on that mental image, and he chased it desperately.

If he couldn't breathe properly, then he'd turn blue, then purple, and his veins would burst from the pressure. The bruise would stain his skin a permanent purple as he slumped to the ground, dead—Patton wailing; Logan staring in horrified disbelief, because it wasn't _possible_ ; Roman torn between celebrating his death and denying it, because fairytales didn't end like this—but Vergilius would be dead, with a purple head and an exploded chest, and—

And Vergilius free-fell into intrusive thots.

* * *

Vergilius came to wrapped in a warm green, dildo-patterned blanket. He pulled it tighter around himself, heedless to the suspicious smells wafting up his nostrils. It felt nice, comforting.

What wasn't nice _or_ comforting was the screaming match raging around him.

"That's it!" Rage was raving. "That tears it! Those fuckers can't come in here, tell us how to live our lives, and then _hurt one of us_! I'm killing them! All of them!"

"Oh, yes, because that's _certainly_ the best solution here," Deceit snapped with that silky, sarcastic voice of his—albeit one with a bite. "It's not as though they'll recover as soon as you leave their sphere of influence or anything. That's a perfect, foolproof solution."

"My brother is _eating my Morningstar_ ," Remus said. "Literally! Literally, I'm gonna cram it down his throat and make him eat it! Whole! Like a snake!" Remus giggled. "Like you, Dee-Dee!"

"Delightful, Remus," Deceit said dryly.

Vergilius craned around to look at them over the back of the couch. They stood in a triangle behind him. Remus was closest to Vergilius, back to him, with a random monkey tail protruding from his ass. Vergilius hoped he'd transformed his body to include it and hadn't attached it some other way.

Great. Now Vergilius was picturing it. _Ugh_ , this was why he hated Daydream Mode. He'd be picturing all manners of ungodly things for _weeks_.

Rage stood to Remus' right, bat bloodied, wreckage strewn around him. Lava sweat from his pores, covering him in a shiny, translucent orange sheen. His ears smoked.

Deceit faced Rage at Remus' left, dense shadows crawling along the far side of his face. A yellow python wrapped around his shoulders like a scarf, and his cane, which braced against the ground in front of him, lacked its hooked snake head.

The python raised its head to look at Vergilius. He froze.

"Ah. Anxiety, you're awake." Deceit looked at him with a smile that could either be warm relief or serpentine hunger. Vergilius suppressed a gulp when he forced himself to meet his eyes.

It didn't miss Vergilius' notice that he wore both gloves.

"What did they do to you?" Rage demanded, whirling on him, and Vergilius cowered behind the couch.

"Stop it! You're scaring him!" A trapdoor opened under Rage's feet and he screamed down into a pool of alligators. The trapdoor snapped shut over him.

Vergilius choked. "Remus, what the hell? You're gonna kill him!"

Remus shrugged. "What? It's not like he's not afraid of me. He'll be fine. Plus, can you just imagine how kinky it'll be when he's ripped apart by crocodiles?" Remus' eyes glinted.

Vergilius couldn't help it. He frowned. "Crocodiles or alligators?"

"Do I look like a sexy nerd? I don't know." Remus leapt over the back of the couch and plopped next to Vergilius. "What happened? Are you okay? Did Roman summon that dumb Dragon Witch and have her rip you apart and then watch and then cook your remains and then—" Remus' hand slapped over his mouth.

"Do pardon Remus. He can't help himself." Deceit sat in his armchair to Vergilius' left, propping his cane against the armrest. "How do you feel?"

Vergilius' fight or flight instinct screamed. "This…why are you…?"

"That's it, punk, square up!" Rage roared, as he fell through another trapdoor in the ceiling with his club raised. "I'm gonna brain you _so hard_!"

"Ooh!" Remus squealed, ripping his hand away from his mouth. "Promise?"

For the third time in a matter of minutes, oceans roared in Vergilius' ears. He couldn't breathe.

" _Please_ do start having sex—or murdering each other—on the carpet. I _don't_ loathe having to snap the stains away every time."

Rage sputtered in outrage. Remus clapped happily. Deceit's snake flashed its fangs at Vergilius.

Suddenly, the blanket didn't feel warm anymore; it felt slimy, tightening around Vergilius like a cocoon.

No, not a cocoon.

Like a noose.

"Like I'd ever sleep with a rat," Rage was snarling. "Can we even have sex? We're fragments of a single guy. That's kinda fucked up to think about."

"I mean, maybe _you_ can't," Remus said.

Vergilius dug his fingers into his scalp and rocked.

" _Why are you like this_?" Rage demanded.

"I just do! A schoodly-boo!"

" _Ugh_. Are we sure we can't just delete him? Might make our lives—"

Rage and Remus fell abruptly silent, but Vergilius didn't even notice. He could vaguely sense his position on the couch. Curled upright, blanket choked halfway around him while he shook, eyes locked head on a single spot on the coffee table. He'd memorized the unique grain texture of it several minutes ago. He'd branded the insides of his eyelids with it. He'd see that coffee table every time he closed his eyes for the rest of his life and remember this moment.

There was humming—was it humming? It sounded different, less carefree, more urgent. He didn't understand. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the coffee table to look.

Someone was saying something. Prattling on and on. Vergilius tried desperately to focus through the haze in his mind. What if it was important? What if Thomas was in danger? He had to focus, but it was so hard.

"—drinks twice its body weight in blood every night? And the African elephant's shits enough to outweigh a fully-grown human in just _seven hours_?"

Vergilius blinked harshly and stared at Remus, whose expression was bright, excited, even a little demented—but also stretched taut with worry.

"Did you know that a human nose produces two galloons of snot _every week_? Did you, Spiky? Did you?"

Vergilius' chest still felt tight and his breaths still stuttered past his lips, but Remus had managed it; he'd anchored him to the present with the _grossest_ , vaguely believable things he could think of.

"Anxiety," Deceit interjected quietly. "I _don't_ need you to breathe with me. Inhale for four—" He counted it out, and Vergilius forced himself to keep pace with his meter. "—hold your breath for seven—" More counting. Vergilius felt his chest start to burn a little, but the effort to hold his breath forced his mind to clear. "Now exhale for eight." When Deceit finished counting, he led Vergilius through a couple more reps, and then relented. Vergilius looked over to see him scratching his python's head. Vergilius didn't think actual snakes could purr, but this one did.

With the world righted, Vergilius extracted himself from the dildo blanket. Rage held back with an unreadable expression; he kept one magmatic eye fixed on Deceit. Since when was _he_ distrustful of their resident snake?

"Hey, Spiky, did you know that jelly beans get their shine from insect poop?"

Vergilius choked violently. " _What_?"

"Yeah! They're covered in this thing called shellac, and that's just a fancy name for insert poop!"

Vergilius stared at Remus' bright, enthusiastic expression disbelievingly. "Remus," he said seriously, reaching out a hand to rest it on his shoulder, "I don't know how you come up with this stuff, but you could be the _king_ of fake news."

Remus wrinkled his nose. "Fake? They're not—"

"Hey, Remus," Rage cut in, bouncing his bat off his palm. "Dawns on me you and I didn't finish our little showdown. You, me, the ring, right now."

Remus summoned his Morning Star and heaved it over his shoulder. "Right behind you, Lava Butt!" He skipped after him. "Hey, Rage, what happens when you take a shit? Like, is it lava or igneous rock? How's it feel to shit rocks? Do you pee lava? What happens when you get diarrhea?"

"Oh my God, shut up!"

Vergilius listened to Remus' high-pitched giggles fade out. He presumed the fight began a few moments later, but thankfully, he couldn't hear it. He turned away and caught Deceit watching him contemplatively out of the corner of his eye. Vergilius tensed.

" _Don't_ feel better, Anxiety," he said, "and _don't_ head back to your room. I'm _sure_ those two won't carry their fight over to every other part of the Subconscious they can reach."

With that, Deceit swept out of the living room. Vergilius couldn't help but watch his gloves as he walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you actually find the 4-7-8 breathing technique helpful for your anxiety, please let me know how it helps you in the comments below. I had to guess. I use different breathing techniques for me because 4-7-8 always makes me panic worse. 
> 
> Also, can you guys clue me in as/if you realize anything that isn't explicitly said in the story? Any hunches you get about what's going on outside of Vergilius, or theories about where things are going, or what have you? One of my biggest weaknesses with writing still is figuring out how _much_ foreshadowing is too much or too little. It's hard to gauge, as the overlord of the story who already knows everything, how much a reader needs in order to guess ahead if I want them to and how much to hold _back_ if I want something to be a surprise without cheating on plot twists. I would really, desperately appreciate any feedback you've got related to your theories, head-canons, hunches, etc. that you develop while reading. It helps me improve my writing, and I want to publish original fiction, so all improvement is invaluable.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An audition goes poorly for Thomas, and Vergilius is pitted against Logan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is officially where we start retreading the series. I do my best to change up the lines and add enough internal narrative from Vergilius to keep it interesting, but please give me feedback on it. 
> 
> I'm sorry this is a little late coming in. I got sucked into a fic and lost all track of time.
> 
> Warnings: Fear of murder, anxiety, self-worth issues, mention of depression

"It's much better to face these kinds of things with a sense of poise and rationality." ~ "I Write Sins Not Tragedies" by _Panic! at the Disco_

* * *

* * *

VERGILIUS HAD THE DRIVER'S SEAT IN THOMAS' LIFE RIGHT NOW and he'd never hated it more.

It had been an accident. They desperately needed something good after all the curveballs life had been sending them, and Roman _knew_ this new community theater production had to be just the ticket. Vergilius only kept Thomas up a few additional hours for line rehearsal, to make sure they nailed the audition. He'd wanted him to succeed as much as _anyone_ —Roman, included. He knew a little more practice could be the difference between another letdown and an overdue bout of good news.

Besides, it wasn't _only_ Vergilius' fault; if that freeloader Sleep hadn't partied in the Imagination all damn night, Thomas would have gotten five more hours of sleep than he did and barely been _one or two_ short of well-rested. As it was, the extra time awake just meant Vergilius had more time to do what he did best: obsess until it drove both of them insane, and then obsess some more.

When Thomas finally dragged himself to the audition, coffee in hand, he'd been dead on his feet. Patton drowsily cheerlead him, Roman frantically warmed up for the big performance, Logan noped out, and Vergilius wrung his hands from the shadows, hoping what he knew in his gut would happen wouldn't.

And sure enough, it did.

Word of the disaster spread through _both_ the Subconscious _and_ the Conscious Mind in minutes, what with both sides of Creativity gutted—in Remus' case, _literally_ —on the floor while their resident caretakers (Deceit and Patton) tended to them. With Thomas' wounded pride receiving all the attention, that left no one available to counter Vergilius' influence.

Vergilius could see everything Thomas saw through a purple twinge right now, as well as the broken Youtube video of his humiliation looping over and over and over again. He'd huddled up in his room, hoping the act of shining its cobwebs would occupy him enough to drown out the urge to harass Thomas further.

He wouldn't be the bad guy this time. He _refused._

" _Logic!" Thomas cried._

Vergilius jerked and shined Charlotte's favorite web harder, even though it already sparkled like diamonds.

 _Logan popped up with dark blue wires dangling from his ears, sawing at the air like he was a DJ at a club and rapping along to some weird, oddly appropriate lyrics. "First in my class here at MIT. Got skills, I'm a champion at—_ AH _!"_

_Thomas arched an eyebrow, barely suppressing a smirk at Logan's mortified expression as the earphones vanished into the ether and he scrambled to adjust his tie._

" _Thomas, you really should warn us before you drag us up like that!" Logan glowed a soft purple, and his cheeks dusted with pink. His embarrassment joined the din._

" _I thought you just had an appreciation for_ poetry _," Thomas asked, snickering._

Vergilius wanted to join in on teasing Logan but resisted it. The second he popped up, he would lose the game of wills with his function; he'd terrorize Thomas until he felt even sicker about this than he already did.

His housekeeping devolved into stiff, jerky movements while he kept up appearances and nothing more. His gut twisted up painfully the longer he resisted.

" _I…that…well…what can I do for you today, Thomas?"_ _Logan asked, still flustered but recovering better than Vergilius would in his shoes._

" _Well, I just had an audition—"_

" _One of those frivolous interviews to play make-believe in a stage production?" Logan clarified like he had no idea how insulting that was. Even Vergilius felt both Creativities take a massive hit to the ego with that one. Poor Thomas._

_Thomas winced. "Yeah, one of those." He sighed. "Well, the audition is over—"_

" _It would appear so."_

" _I either get the part or I don't."_

Vergilius could have smacked Thomas, but he understood too well why he even bothered. Logan was the last Side he knew of who stood any chance at helping him feel better. Oblivious and socially-dumb though he could be, Logan either countered Vergilius or no one did, and Thomas continued spiraling.

" _Yes, that is how it works. Is this new information to you, or…?"_

" _I just want to know,_ objectively… _how did I do?"_

Vergilius doubled over, crying out. " **No!** " he screamed. His room trembled. " **No, no, no, no, n—** "

Vergilius jerked into his usual spot. He recovered and crossed his arms; no point showing weakness to people who already expected the worst from him. "You screwed up."

Thomas flinched and hung his head. "Anxiety," he muttered miserably.

Vergilius' gut twisted i and he snapped, "You fucked up, Sanders!" He pushed his shame and self-disgust behind a vault door and locked it tight. It wouldn't accomplish anything, not now.

Logan faced Vergilius with his arms crossed over his chest, almost as though to mirror Vergilius—except he looked more unimpressed than moody. "All right," he said. "How, exactly, did he 'fuck up'?"

Vergilius tore between wanting Logan to _win_ and wanting to wipe that superior look off his face. "Try the beginning," he snarled. "He choked."

"You—" Logan sighed, and Vergilius realized he'd just fallen into the same trap as Thomas. "Thomas, how many times do I have to tell you? _Chew your food_."

Vergilius pinched his sinuses and hung his head, sighing. "Too literal," he said. "He forgot the lyrics."

"I forgot the song, Logan!" Thomas whined. "I tripped right out of the gate!"

"Then you should watch where you're stepping," Logan said.

Vergilius sighed. "How do you _seriously_ not know all of this?" he demanded, whirling on Logan. "We all were up-to-date and taking blows for it as soon as it _happened_. Where have you been?"

Logan blustered. "Working." A flash of yellow overtook his eyes, gone in an instant.

Vergilius glared at him, and maybe he _did_ resent Logan a little for calling him a defeatist last time they talked. Whether or not the others were right in labeling him the villain of this tale, that _hurt_ —especially coming from the only Known Side he'd ever let himself consider an ally. Who said Vergilius couldn't be petty, insecure _and_ bitter?

Vergilius tuned in again partway through a Logan rationalization. "—remember one's lines?"

"It isn't?"

Vergilius scowled as he connected the dots—and reviewed Thomas' most recent anxious memories to ensure he didn't make an ass of himself. "When is it _ever_ okay not to remember your lines?" he demanded.

"In filming for _The Dark Knight_ , Micheal Caine was so surprised to see Heath Ledger in the Joker makeup that he forgot his lines. The director decided that take was so organic, they used it in the final cut of the film."

Thomas' face lit up, and Vergilius considered bowing out—turning a blind eye to the easy rebuttal, letting Logan take this match, and accepting a graceful defeat. Thomas could rationalize himself out of a negative spiral, Vergilius could return to agonizing over where he belonged in this grayscale Mindscape puzzle set, and they'd all save time on the lengthy existential crisis. Maybe Thomas could even be productive despite his categorical failure today.

But then he caught Logan's challenging stare, as if he was _egging Vergilius on_ , and his ears roared.

_Defeatist. Crazy. Villain. Bad guy._

What good would it do Vergilius to bow out gracefully now? What good would it do _anyone_ if he bowed out? Logan would help Thomas delude himself into believing he'd get a callback and he'd be crushed when he didn't. Roman would return to flaunt his ego while Patton stroked it. They'd all continue convincing themselves they knew what _good_ and _bad_ were, and judge at their leisure anyone who dared disagree. Thomas would chase himself to insanity from grief over his breakup, never confronting it until it consumed him.

Not only had Deceit been telling the truth when he told Vergilius not to fix what wasn't broken; he'd been absolutely right. If they wanted a villain, all they would _see_ was a villain—and Vergilius could do a lot more good leaning into that assumption than wasting his time trying to prove them wrong.

He lifted his eyes and locked them with Logan's. "That," he began pointedly, "is an _extremely_ specific and _random_ fact to use just to feel secure."

Logan cracked a smile. Vergilius prepared for the trap; if Logan wanted to turn this into a battle of wits, he'd show him he wasn't the only Side who could think ahead.

Thomas punched a hand into the air. "Whatever works!"

"And besides," Vergilius added, "that's a movie. You know, where you get the benefit of _multiple_ takes and you can pick your favorite? In theater, you only get _one shot_ —and you threw away."

Thomas flinched like he'd been struck. "You're using Lin Manuel Miranda's words against me and I hate you for it."

 _Hate away, Thomas,_ Vergilius thought, narrowing his eyes. _As long as you wake the hell up._

"While colorfully phrased, that is not an incorrect statement," Logan told Thomas frankly when he turned to him for reassurance.

Vergilius scowled sideways at Logan. Had he gotten confused? He was Thomas' noble hero opposing the cruel villain, Anxiety—and Anxiety would continuously antagonize them, because he couldn't be vanquished. And eventually, one day in the distant future, Thomas would figure out there was more to being human than being perfectly moral, noble and chivalrous all the time.

"Why even look to me for comfort?" Logan continued. "Where are Roman and Patton?"

Vergilius scoffed and Thomas explained the set up to him.

"Which you'd _know_ ," Vergilius interjected, "if you left your little nerd haven for long enough to do your damn _job_ —you know, keeping Thomas on task and _logical_?"

Pain flashed bright and hot across Logan's eyes. Vergilius wanted nothing more than to eat his words as soon as he'd said them; playing the villain was one thing, but _being_ the villain was another entirely. The damage had been done, though. He couldn't apologize without capsizing his charade.

Logan cleared his throat and turned to Thomas. "So, they are…of absolutely no assistance to you whatsoever."

Thomas shook his head. "Right now, I don't feel optimistic or hopeful about my chances— _at all_. So, I was hoping—"

"You're not hopeful but you're hoping?" Vergilius asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Thomas glared at him. "—you could tell me I did good," he finished, addressing Logan. "You know…objectively?" He shrugged sheepishly.

"Yikes." Logan whipped out an index card and tossed it over his shoulder. "I'm afraid I cannot do that, Thomas. Perhaps it would be pertinent to accept that, this time, you did not do well."

For some unimaginable reason, Vergilius felt himself preen—just a little, in response to validation he knew hadn't been directed at him, but felt nice nonetheless, after so long with the Knowns and Thomas constantly spitting on him.

"Yeah," Vergilius gloated. "It was a trainwreck."

"Whoa!" Logan made a _Time Out_ motion. "That seemed _extremely_ emotionally-charged."

Ah. There it was. "What?" he demanded. "I just said what you did, only _more effectively_."

"Ah." Logan turned to Thomas. "I see what the problem is here. You are permitting one Side sway over your feelings on this matter, and they all fall quite heavily on the _negative_ end of the spectrum."

What about this situation _wasn't_ negative? "Hang on a second—"

"If you allow your thinking to be _so influenced_ by negativity, it will lead to cognitive distortions."

"What?" Thomas frowned at him.

Logan sighed. "Thomas, I could not lecture you on this if you did not, on some level, know what I'm talking about. It serves none of us if you—" He whipped out an index card. "—'play dumb.'"

Thomas sighed. "Sorry, just took me a second to catch up. So…if Anxiety is lying to me about reality—"

"If I'm _what_?" Vergilius shrieked.

"—then what do we do?" Thomas finished.

Logan beamed. "I'm glad you asked, Thomas," he said. "As your logical thinking—" His smile thinned. "—like Anxiety so… _eloquently_ said earlier, it is my duty to steer you toward a more realistic, nuanced outlook."

"You're one to talk about nuance," Vergilius snapped.

Logan's eyes flashed warningly, and Thomas frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind, Thomas," Logan said quickly. "Anxiety is, as per usual, not making sense." His eyes flickered yellow and Vergilius clenched his fist.

"Of course," Vergilius snarled, glaring at Logan. "When it comes down to it, you take Princey's side." Vergilius couldn't humor the stab of betrayal in his chest; Logan had entered no contractual agreement to respect Vergilius when he took credit for his contributions and kept Thomas safe. He'd just done his job. Their job. _Every Side's job._ He'd just been willing to consort with the enemy some to do it.

And now Vergilius had his own, different job, too: _being_ the enemy. And he had to play it well.

"Did I say I was taking Roman's side?" Logan asked. "I don't remember saying that. Thomas, did I say I was taking Roman's side?"

"No, you didn't." Thomas smirked.

Vergilius rolled his eyes. There the Knowns went again—being a united front denying to the ends of the Earth they were a united front. That kind of thing got old fast.

"To be honest," Logan continued, "I find you both a little…extra."

"Another vocab word!" Thomas cheered, and Logan preened as he tossed another vocabulary card aside.

Apparently, even Logic wasn't immune to flattery—especially when it came from their center. It made Vergilius feel a little more secure in his giddiness whenever Thomas said anything remotely nice to him.

Still embarrassing, though.

"I cannot make you feel better with positive or comforting words, But I can work to bring a clearer vision of the situation that this corner of the room is obscuring." Logan gestured toward Vergilius, and he resigned himself to another decisive loss.

With that in mind, he didn't try that hard on his comeback. Thomas needed comedic material when he turned this into a video, anyway. "I'd write an angsty sonnet illustrating my contempt for you if I _actually_ cared enough."

The next thing Vergilius knew, he was in the middle of an echo-y, dark theater with three disorienting spotlights trained on Thomas, Logan and Vergilius each. Vergilius hissed like a vampire and threw up his arm to shield from the glare.

"Good afternoon from the Sanders' Mind Palace Center," Thomas started, leaning forward on his moderator's podium with his hands clasped.

"Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me." Vergilius looked at Logan across the way. "Who are you, Roman? This is ridiculous."

"My name is Thomas Sanders," Thomas continued, "your supplier of semi-humorous Tumblr posts at three in the morning."

Logan sputtered. "Three in the— _Thomas_ , how many times do I have to _tell you_? You need your _sleep_!"

"I welcome you to my first—" He went on like Logan hadn't spoken. "—and hopefully only, Emotionally Compromised Debate between Secretary of Logical Defense, Logan, and Supreme Dark Overlord of Negative Commerce…I'm afraid I'm going to need your name."

Vergilius looked at him unbelievingly. He decided, if they were going to do this whole charade, then he'd milk it for every last drop. He learned forward and parted his lips as if to answer honestly, and then said, "No."

Thomas sighed. "It was worth a shot. Supreme Dark Overlord of Negative Commerce, Anxiety. This debate is sponsored by the National Essential Reasoning Department or NERD—"

"Uh…" Logan cut in, raising his hand. "Do we have to abbreviate—?"

"—and the Public Humiliation Foundation."

"I'm a weekly donor," Vergilius quipped, glaring across the way at Logan.

"The format has been determined by Logan—"

"So, it's rigged," Vergilius translated, and Logan flashed him an exasperated look.

"—for one-minute segments, centering around recent personal events that trouble me greatly, please help me, _ah_."

Logan held out a hand. "Keep calm, carry on."

"Right." Thomas nodded rapidly, shaking himself out. "Yep. Right. You're right. I'm a grownup. Me, me, big—wait, no."

Vergilius smirked.

"Each debater will have sixty seconds to answer their question, followed by a response from their opponent. Are we clear on the rules?"

"Yes," Logan confirmed as Vergilius declared, "This is stupid!"

"Let the debate begin," Thomas said with a bit too much flair, with Roman checked out like he was. "Anxiety, the first question goes to you."

"What?" Vergilius yelped and covered his head. His ribs constricted around his lungs. The spotlight blinded him. "No! Too much pressure!"

"Yesterday," he began, "I was texting someone who I liked very much. They made me feel itty-bitty butterflies in my tummy and sunshine in my heart."

Vergilius and Logan groaned in synchronized disgust, and Vergilius glared across the way at Logan. Who gave him permission to agree with the guy he wanted to destroy?

"At some point in the conversation, they suddenly stopped replying to me. My question to you is: do they hate me?"

Vergilius snorted. Starting out with the easy questions, were they? Maybe Thomas wasn't rooting against him, after all.

Wait. Maybe Thomas _wasn't_ rooting against him, after all.

Vergilius didn't have time to linger on that with Logan setting nerd lasers to kill across the way. "Absolutely," he confirmed.

"Interesting. Would you care to elaborate?"

Vergilius rolled his eyes. "Why else wouldn't they reply to you? Pull your head out of your ass, Sanders. People use their phones for everything nowadays. They were probably just talking to you to be nice, but then that got boring and you couldn't catch a hint, so they stopped."

Thomas winced. Vergilius felt a stab of regret, but he was just introducing reality to the situation. Thomas couldn't go through life falsely believing people he cared about cared about him back when they didn't. He still had Joan and Talyn and all the others. He would be fine, even if Vergilius had to deliver some hard truths once in a while.

"Logic, your response?"

 _Logic, huh?_ Vergilius thought. _I guess Thomas isn't on your side, after all, if he's calling you by your function still._ He felt a little too smug about that.

"Thomas, this sounds like a prime example of 'jumping to a conclusion,'" Logan said. "There are _multitudinous_ reasons why someone might not respond to a text, especially if you are unaware of their feelings—" He wrinkled his nose at the word. "—activities, battery life—"

"—how _much_ they hate you…" Vergilius interrupted.

" _As I was saying_ ," Logan grit through his teeth. Vergilius leaned back when he saw a familiar, intense orange twinge in Logan's eyes. Oh shit. "What you know is that you were conversating with this person, and humans typically socialize with other humans they enjoy, but for some unknown reason, the conversation abruptly ended. Does this individual dislike you? That's TBD."

"'Totally Believable, Dude,'" Vergilius said, eyeing Logan carefully. For a moment there…his eyes looked as orange as Rage's.

"'To Be Determined,'" Logan corrected. The orange twinge hadn't faded.

Thomas noticed nothing. "Okay," he said. "Well, that…is all very important to consider, Logan. Thank you."

"My argument was more convincing," Vergilius muttered, watching Logan for any sudden movements.

"Falsehood." As quickly as it had come, the orange glow disappeared. Logan no longer spared Vergilius the presence of mind to be angry—or even to care, if the flippancy of his tone was anything to go by.

"Next question, we start with Logan."

Logan sat up straighter, eyes glittering with eagerness.

 _Nerd_ , Vergilius thought, not without fondness. Wait, fondness? Before he could question that, Thomas continued, "Last week, I planned to be super-productive: get a bunch of tasks done, respond to business emails, film or edit a video, and generally get ahead in life."

"All part of my proposed efficiency plan we voted on."

Vergilius stopped, glancing at Logan in alarm. He hadn't been consulted on any vote. Logan's eyes flicked toward him, and a strange light—not anger—passed through them. Logan shook his head and turned back to Thomas.

"Exactly," Thomas confirmed. "However, certain things were not gotten around to, and the plan wasn't as successfully carried out as I would have hoped. My question to you is: was it all a waste?"

"Not necessarily," Logan began eagerly.

Even though Vergilius had gone into this expecting to lose, he wouldn't take it laying down—especially after learning the Knowns were making important decisions for Thomas' life without so much as cluing him in. "That's not a straight answer."

Logan's eyes fluttered. "Can I…can I finish?"

Maybe Vergilius' self-preservation instinct had temporarily gone dark since his revelation about where he fit in in Thomas' life, or maybe he just prided himself on being the world's greatest little bitch. Whatever the reason, he said, "Well, are you going to _answer it_?"

"I was _starting to_ ," Logan grit out, eyes turning orange again, "before you _interrupted me_."

"Because you were beating around the bush. Just answer—"

"Are you going to let me finish my statement? I was talking and then you—"

"Are you even going to answer honestly? Because it sounds like—"

"Can you even _pretend_ to respect the sanctity of the rules we made up just now? It's like debating with a todd—"

"Well, if you'd just—"

"Can you both—?" Thomas cut in, and then the three of them were all talking over each other, trying to be heard.

Vergilius paused a moment to watch the pandemonium before raising his voice. "The _straight_ —I mean, gay—I mean, _simple_ answer to that question is, _yes_ , Thomas. You didn't get everything you set out to do done, so therefore, it _was_ a waste." Vergilius turned to Logan, crossing his arms. "See, Logan? I even used your reasoning to come to that conclusion."

Something odd—but not orange—played with Logan's expression. "That was your turn. Now this is mine."

Logan turned to Thomas. "Did you accomplish everything you set out to do? No. But you _did_ accomplish some of the things you set out to do, all of which you're ignoring. This act of mentally filtering out the negatives to focus on is harmful to your mental health and you cannot allow yourself to entertain it."

 _Right,_ Vergilius thought bitterly. _I'm the reason Thomas' mental health is going into the toilet. It definitely can't have anything to do with the Denial Squad running his life._

But then again…

" _Thomas has depressive feelings,"_ Deceit had told them in the conversation that kicked off this fiasco in the first place. Back in high school, only a little while after Vergilius had been acknowledged by their center and started playing even a semi-active role in his life.

" _Defeatist,"_ Logan had called him. No longer did that word burn like a fire in Vergilius' chest; once again, it cut him to the core, because what if Logan had been right?

He'd blindly followed the assurances of a professional liar in everything he did—in his approach with Thomas, in believing he and the other Unknowns on the right side of this conflict. He listened to Deceit, even though he didn't trust him, because…why? Because Deceit and the others were all he'd ever known? Because they were the closest to a family he had?

But Patton had raised valid points about how much—or how little—the others helped Thomas. He'd somehow gotten attached to Vergilius, but why should it be any different for him? Why should he be exempt from hurting Thomas when everyone he associated with did?

But that wasn't their _fault_ , he told himself, even though the argument felt a little weaker every time he used it. Thomas made them this way. But...maybe that was for a reason. Vergilius stared across the way at Logan, the world roaring dumbly in his ears. Logan believed him a defeatist. Reductive. Illogical. _Unnecessary_. His heart skittered to a stop.

And what happened when Logic believed a Side unnecessary?

He got rid of them.

Oh God.

"Thank you, Logan," Thomas said, and all at once, Vergilius realized he couldn't afford to lose this debate.

If he did, he'd lose his life.

"Wait, what? No!" Vergilius shoved up. "This isn't fair! You're rooting against me and you're the moderator!"

"What's wrong, Anxiety?" Logan gloated. "Afraid your _silver tongue_ will land you in _second place_?"

Vergilius hissed defensively, hackles raced and heart racing. He struggled to breathe. Hyperventilating wouldn't win him this fight.

Logan blinked and looked at Thomas. "Did he…did he just hiss at me?"

"I do that when I reach my limit of _stupid questions_ ," Vergilius snarled. He tugged at his hoodie.

How had he been so stupid? He'd treated this like a foregone conclusion he'd lose and everything would revert to normal. But this wasn't just any old existential argument—not against Logic. This was a test: either Vergilius passed and got to stay, or he failed, and Logan found a way to destroy him. For good.

"Bear with me a little longer," Thomas said pacifyingly, like this hadn't just escalated to a matter of life and death—or whatever the equivalent was for Sides. "Anxiety, this morning, I went to a coffee shop and the barista was _extremely_ charming."

Vergilius wrinkled his nose. "Ew."

"Things were even going really well. There was some witty banter, but then, at the inevitable 'enjoy your coffee,' I said…" Vergilius almost begged him not to finish. The embarrassment might kill them both. "'You, too.' Did I—?"

"You blew it and you're a moron," Vergilius confirmed. Despite the panic steadily choking him, he tried for sympathy. Thomas didn't have the easiest time flirting, which made disaster all the more galling when it struck.

Thomas winced. "Yeah, fair point. Okay, next—"

"Whoa, whoa, hold on!" Logan threw up his hands. "Don't I get a turn?"

"I don't think that's necessary. His argument was pretty airtight," Thomas said.

"Thank God." Vergilius doubled over the podium before he could stop himself.

"Except it…wasn't," Logan said, eyeing him strangely.

Vergilius' head snapped up. No. No way. He couldn't crawl out of this one. Vergilius had that question in the bag. He couldn't just—

"Thomas, what you're doing—what Anxiety is having you do—is called 'magnifying.' Taking a couple _small_ , less-than-ideal events and exaggerating them to represent the entire picture. Despite your…painfully awkward parting remark, it sounds like the rest of the interaction carried out like an optimum courtship."

"'Optimum'—dude, do you hear yourself?" Vergilius demanded before he could stop himself. _Where was his self-preservation instinct?_ "Thesauruses—"

"Thesauri—"

"—what the fuck ever—have more personality than you. Nobody says 'courtship' anymore. This isn't the thirteenth century. Stop trying to sound—"

"Actually—"

"I didn't ask for a history lesson! We know you're smart. You don't need to peacock all the time to prove it. Jesus Christ, you're as bad as Roman."

" _FALSEHOOD_!"

Vergilius and Thomas stopped dead. Logan's eyes blazed like two miniature fires, and a terrible thought occurred to Vergilius. If he _did_ win this, would it enrage Logan so much that he destroyed him, anyway?

Logan cleared his throat and straightened his tie. A faint orange glow remained in his eyes, even then. "As I was saying—"

Vergilius snapped out of his shock. He knew, even if this was a Catch-22, he had to try to win. Maybe then, he'd earn enough of Logan's respect to dodge the bullet. "He just wants us to ignore the _important_ parts," Vergilius said. "The things that matter."

"Falsehood." Logan faltered. The orange glow didn't return en force, which Vergilius counted as a good thing. He still dripped nervous sweat. "That is what _you_ are doing."

"So, you _admit_ they're important."

Logan scowled at him. "Okay, you know what?" He pulled out one of his index cards and scribbled something down on it.

"What are you—?" Vergilius craned to try to steal a glimpse, but then Logan held it up.

"I'm writing you a prescription for a figurative 'chill pill.'" He'd done the card up like an actual doctor's note.

Vergilius gaped and Thomas praised Logan for the comeback.

"Okay, moving on," Thomas said. "Last issue, I will throw out for open discussion. I posted a video recently and it didn't get the reception I was hoping for. Could this be the beginning of the end for me?"

 _Finally_ , Vergilius thought. He'd lost three of the four rounds, but maybe if he ended strong, he'd be found valuable enough to keep around. He just had to stick this landing, and even Logan's contempt for him could be swayed with hard numbers. "Oh, definitely," Vergilius confirmed. "You can't argue with math. These are definitely the end days. Time to panic and/or cry."

Okay, maybe he went a little ham at the end, but he _was_ Anxiety, and Logan was stomping all over his territory. Surly and melodramatic felt like the last two shields he had available to him.

"Preposterous," Logan said.

"Your _mom_ is preposterous," Vergilius shot back. He winced internally at the comeback; not his strongest. Hopefully Logan would consider a lack of non-serious wit a mark against him in his trial for his life.

Logan rolled his eyes. "That, Thomas, is called 'overgeneralizing.'"

Vergilius choked. His mind roared and his heart hammered. _No._ " _What_? No! It's math! It's simple math! It—"

Logan raised his voice to speak over Vergilius'. "You're letting _one_ less than ideal event speak for all future events. To date, has a single video's underperformance ever been indicative of failure?"

A faint smile played with Thomas' face. "No," he said.

"No," Vergilius breathed.

"All I'm postulating—"

"Will you _stop it_ with the unnecessary SAT words?" Vergilius exploded.

"—is that, in the past, your life has proven to have its figurative peaks and valleys. All valleys eventually lead to peaks again—to continue the metaphor."

"So true," Thomas confirmed, _beaming_. He glowed a faint periwinkle. Patton was back in fighting—or, rather, loving—condition.

"You know what?" Vergilius exploded.

He could feel the walls crushing him. He'd lost. That had been the final round, and he'd lost. His own purview had trapped him in a losing battle. The Knowns had blocked him out, carried on critical conversations about Thomas' life without him, plotted to remove him permanently. Whatever side of the coin the Unknowns fell on, they'd waged an unwinnable war.

And Vergilius would be the first casualty.

Dully, he wondered: would Remus avenge him? Would Roman cut down his own brother like in the myth?

"I'm done!" Vergilius wondered if his eyes had turned orange, but he doubted it. Anxiety and anger could overlap in experience, but this was righteous panic—the knowledge that he'd lost a fight he could never win, and he'd been played, and he just didn't care enough anymore. "This is stupid! You're stupid! This is all stupid! None of this makes any difference. You know why? Because I'm right and you're wrong. _That's_ why!" He snapped his fingers and they all dropped out into Thomas' default space for emotional dilemmas: his living room.

Vergilius immediately tried to flee to his own room as soon as they arrived—to buy time, to tie up loose ends, make amends with the other Unknowns, he didn't know—but he hit a wall. Thomas hadn't finished with him yet—wouldn't until Vergilius was no more.

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. This was it, wasn't it? He'd failed, so now he would pay the ultimate price. Would Remus even realize what had happened? Would he assume he'd abandoned him for the Knowns like Roman had? Would he hate him forever, never realizing Vergilius had been vanquished for the last time? Would anyone even pause to grieve him? Would anyone _remember him_?

Deceit would know, he thought. He'd tell the others the truth.

Except no, he wouldn't. Deceit was a liar. That was all he'd ever been. How could Vergilius trust him to set his affairs in order? For all he knew, this had been part of Deceit's plan all along.

This had been part of Deceit's plan all along.

"That was my dream space," Logan said, offended. "How dare you?"

"Was it really getting us anywhere?" Vergilius whirled. "Thomas, really, think about this. Do you think that accomplished _anything_? We were talking about the audition, and that—"

"Actually, I think that _did_ help, Anxiety."

"What?" Vergilius refused to cry. "How?"

"Well, when I messed up the audition today, I assumed the director immediately hated me, but that might have been me jumping to a conclusion."

Logan beamed. "Correct."

"You forgot the song!" Vergilius cried. "That's the _whole thing_!"

"True, but when I was given that second chance, I did pretty well. I might have been magnifying that one mistake to seem bigger than it was."

"You learning things is the closest I will ever be to feeling love," Logan said, and Vergilius didn't miss the faint yellow glow in his eyes when he said that.

"Great," Vergilius spat. "So, you've 'learned something.' But what happens if—and _when_ —you find out you weren't cast in the show?"

"Well, I'll be bummed, but I won't overgeneralize," Thomas told him. "One bad audition doesn't speak for everything I have to offer. I can do better, and I will."

Vergilius stopped and stared.

He'd assumed, with the breakup and Thomas' declining mental health, the failed audition would be the straw the broke the camel's back. It had been his motivation behind harassing him so much in the first place.

Something untangled and relaxed deep inside him. Even if this turned out to be his last hooray, at least his last sight would be Thomas smiling.

"Well done, Thomas!" Logan exploded, spreading his arms like a proud father. Vergilius faded into the shadow of the stairwell. He made peace with his fate. "A+ for today!"

"No, A+ to _you_ , sir." Vergilius watched Thomas tip an imaginary hat to Logan.

"And Anxiety—"

"Save it." Vergilius held up a hand, suppressing the tremor in it. He pulled his hood up over his face, so he could at least Fade with some dignity. It took every scrap of strength he had not to hit his knees and grovel for mercy. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. "I'm just gonna sink out."

He'd rather Thomas not watch what was about to happen.

But Logan spoke before Vergilius could disappear, and said the last thing he'd ever expected to hear from him. "Actually, I was going to tell you that was a good debate today."

Vergilius stopped and stared at him, already half in his room. "What?"

"That was a good debate," he repeated. "You did a good job."

Vergilius slowly rose enough to meet Logan's eyes. "H-how?" Vergilius stared. "I was barely trying." At least, until the end. "I hissed at you."

Logan pulled a face. "I will admit that is an…unorthodox debate tactic, but despite how little you _clearly_ enjoyed taking part, you offered your points. You even reasoned in your own way. All that is quite commendable."

Vergilius couldn't believe his ears. Logan _wasn't_ going to punish him for losing? He hadn't proven himself expendable? Even though he'd lost? "I guess…I just…I assumed—"

"You jumped to a conclusion." Logan smiled.

Vergilius flashed back to the moment he'd stepped aside to let Thomas come out as gay, when he'd relented and entrusted Logan with his safety. There had been just a fraction of a second, then, when he thought Logan might be his ally in this going forward—might understand and support him, even where the others couldn't. He'd been proven wrong immediately after.

He didn't dare hope this might be any different.

" _Aw_ ," Thomas gushed. "This is so wholesome! I'm glad to see you guys working some things out."

"We didn't work anything out," Vergilius told him harshly, cheeks heating.

"He's as stubborn as ever," Logan confirmed.

Together, they sank out.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergilius and Logan play chess, and Vergilius goes home to an unwanted guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers in this chapter include spoilers, so they'll be included in the end notes. If there's anything that is actively distressing to you, feel free to check ahead. I promise this does include any reference to self-harm or suicide or reference to sexual assault, but if there are triggers outside of those you're worried about, forearm yourself. 
> 
> Reminder of Chapter 10 when Remus used a bunch of gross facts to distract Virgil from a panic attack.

"The sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead." ~ "Sharpest Lives" by _My Chemical Romance_

* * *

* * *

AT FIRST, Vergilius mistook the dim lighting for the Subconscious, until he realized it glowed just a fraction brighter. A terrible thought occurred to him: had Logan tricked him and banished him to Limbo to Fade after all?

At least, until _Logan_ popped up in front of him with a steaming teacup in his hands. "Well done today," he said.

Vergilius stared. "What is this?"

"Patton insists the more… _spirited_ interpersonal debates be resolved with a period of peaceful companionship," he explained, "and I believe that might do us some good here."

"Why do you care about Patton wants?" Vergilius said, taking the tea. The heat felt comforting after all the stress of the last several hours. "He's all feeling."

"Because he starts crying if I don't comply, and the one thing I hate more than sentimentality is that." Logan's eyes had a faint yellow twinge to them again.

A crazy thought popped into Vergilius' head, and he hesitated. Before he could decide whether he wanted to voice it, Logan had crossed over to a chess table in the corner, gesturing invitingly to the opposite chair.

Vergilius frowned, but sat across from him. It didn't miss his notice that Logan controlled the white pieces, and he the black. He lost a pawn within the first three moves, but he hadn't expected any different.

His mind raced. He wanted to say something, to fill the awkward silence with a topic of conversation that might endear Logan to him. If Logan and him could see eye to eye, then maybe things could change, with Thomas and the others. Maybe Vergilius could find a place at the table.

But was that what he really wanted?

(Truth be told, deep down, he already knew the answer to that question. He just wasn't ready to accept it yet.)

The silence roared in Vergilius' ears until his anxiety demanded he fill it. "Hey, Logan?" he began, moving his bishop diagonally to take one of Logan's pawns. He knew he'd waltzed into a trap, but he didn't much care.

"Yes, Anxiety?"

"I, uh…heard some weird things the other days. Sounded a little fact-y, but I'm pretty sure they couldn't be."

Logan tapped his bishop on the head with his knight and Vergilius retired him to the graveyard. "What facts?"

"Uh…" Vergilius pretended to struggle, but Remus' terrifying "facts" had haunted him since he heard them. Suffice to say Thomas' recent cravings for jelly beans had gone unsatisfied. "Something about elephants, uh…" His cheeks flushed at the thought of saying the word he was about to say in front of the most sophisticated Side next to _maybe_ Deceit. "—pooping, uh…a human's body weight in less than a day?"

"African elephants," Logan said, nodding. "They defecate enough to outweigh a human in fecal matter in seven hours." He quoted it casually, then gestured at the board to remind Vergilius to play. He moved his last pawn one space forward, and Logan swept his rook into place. "Check," he said. Vergilius scrambled to save his king.

Most of Vergilius' pieces sat in Logan's graveyard within very little time, and he didn't know whether to be annoyed or amused that Logan had decided to toy with him.

It reminded him of Deceit a little—batting Vergilius the Mouse around before swallowing him whole—but unlike Deceit's machinations, this really was just a game. In that light, the manipulation felt fun, like light teasing; not like life and death where losing a game Vergilius couldn't even affect the outcome of determined which option he walked away with.

The words spilled out before Vergilius could stop them. "You need to be careful," he warned Logan.

Logan arched an eyebrow. "I mean absolutely no offense, Anxiety, especially as you've lasted longer against me than either Roman or Patton, but I do not believe you are in a position to warn me about 'being careful.'" He smirked.

"Not about the game." Vergilius laid his king down, and Logan's eyes widened. "Every time you lie, Deceit can hear—he can hear what you're thinking, what you're doing, _all of it_. And he's _always_ listening. He never misses a trick. I don't know what he's planning, not really, but he's dangerous."

Logan stared at him, blinking rapidly. "What? Anxiety—"

" _Listen to me_ ," he said emphatically, heart pounding. He didn't know where this newfound passion had come from. Maybe it had been there the whole time, simmering below the surface. Maybe Vergilius had been part of the Denial Squad the whole time. "I know you feel things. It's obvious. _Everyone knows you feel things_." Logan's eyes flashed and he opened his mouth to argue, but Vergilius didn't give him the chance. "Every time you pretend like you don't care, you're lying, and he can hear. And you do it a _lot_."

Logan's mouth flapped like he desperately wanted to counter the accusation, but he couldn't. He closed it, eyes dark with shame and doubt.

"Deceit is _dangerous_ ," Vergilius insisted. "Maybe not all the time. Maybe always. I don't know anymore and I don't want to take my chances. You've _got_ to be more careful. You all do. Stop giving him these edges. I don't think any of us want to find out what he'll do with them."

Actually, Vergilius had a pretty good idea what Deceit would use with that edge: slit their throats. He didn't think Logan would appreciate hearing that, though.

Vergilius felt numb, but shaky, but energized, but exhilarated, but terrible, all at once. He heaved for air even though he hadn't done anything strenuous. He buzzed from the outburst; his mind dizzy with everything he'd just said.

Logan watched him, betraying nothing on his face, and Vergilius thought he might suffocate from the ball of dread lodged in his throat. They stayed like this—Vergilius almost standing, pushed forward, hands flat on the table beside errant chess pieces; Logan, impassive, seated across from him—for several moments until, at last, Logan took pity on him.

He shifted forward and folded his hands in front of him. The chess pieces disappeared so he didn't disturb them. "Anxiety, I need you to understand you are sounding quite paranoid right now," he said, and Vergilius flinched away from the familiar title, "and it would behoove us all not to resurrect that _particular_ demon."

Vergilius stayed like that, face turned away, breaths hitching. "He was me, you know," he murmured. "Paranoia." He forced himself to look at Logan again. "He used to be me."

Logan nodded. "I suspected."

"But I don't want to be like that anymore," Vergilius insisted. He glimpsed his reflection in the glass cabinets behind Logan. To absolutely none of his surprise but all of his relief, he found his eyes a deep, warm, natural brown. "Please. Don't say that word again." He gulped. "If you were telling the truth at all, after that debate—if you respect me _at all_ , don't say it again."

Logan nodded carefully. "May I ask you one thing, Anxiety?"

Vergilius sensed the trap, but acquiesced anyway.

"When you leave here—" He gestured around the Conscious Mind. "—where will you go?"

Vergilius squeezed his eyes shut.

He heard the chair screech back and pried his eyes open to watch Logan slowly rise to his feet. "Then I'll respect your wishes not to associate you with your former self and his compatriots when you, yourself, cease associating with them."

Virgil hung his head and ducked out.

* * *

If the world—or, in this case, _Mindscape_ —were fair, Vergilius would have reappeared in his room to comforting silence and darkness, crawled into the closet, wrapped himself in his dark grey comforter, and rocked himself until he calmed down.

But, of course, the Mindscape—especially the Subconscious Mind—is never fair.

"Now _that_ was a good fight!" Rage roared as cannons went off and blasted through the walls.

Vergilius screamed, ducking before snapping his fingers frantically, erasing as much of the damage as he could. Dusty drywall vanished, the gaping holes left by the assault sealing up like new, still covered in dark grey wallpaper. Rage's rampage had barely left a mark.

Except.

Vergilius' eyes lingered on the broken spiderwebs sticking to his bedspread, on the still body of Aragog, laying on his back with his legs curled up against his belly. Vergilius' ears roared.

"Oops." Rage laughed. "Oh, stop looking like that, Anxiety. Here." He clapped his hands. Aragog leapt back up and scurried up the wall, weaving a new web.

But Vergilius could tell: he was the wrong size, and his black and purple pattern looked just a millimeter off. The difference was so slight, it made perfect sense why Rage wouldn't notice. But a father always knows.

Storm clouds gathered overhead.

Rage whistled. **"** _Damn_. Logic _really_ riled you up, didn't he?" He laughed boisterously. "I have got to hand it to you. I mean, not to brag or anything, but I _do_ have the easiest time with him, and _still_. I mean, _damn_ , I kept waiting for him to kill you. And that jab at him being like Princey Lame-Ass? _Genius_."

The shadows of the room condensed, chilling to subzero temperatures. Rage shivered in his anachronistic Roman armor. Vergilius was unaffected.

Rage started pacing, swinging his club back and forth. "You just gonna stand there? C'mon, we should celebrate. Don't you wanna celebrate?" Rage tugged on his collar. "That was a _good fight_. You've always liked those, haven't you?"

 _No_ , Vergilius thought. _Paranoia_ liked them. Paranoia liked to stay sharp, to shine and hon that damn machete every day, eyes on the walls, the corners, the shadows. Paranoia liked to test out heinous, disgusting new torture methods or square up, machete versus baseball bat, every day, as many times a day as they wanted. It kept him primed. It kept him ready. It kept Thomas safe.

But had it? Had it ever? Or was that just what Deceit wanted him to think?

Rage bounced in place. " _C'mon_. Don't leave me hanging! Let's go fuck some shit up! What're you waiting for? Let's _go_. This place is too gloomy for a party."

Charlotte crawled along the ceiling to loom over Rage's head, growing steadily until she was the size of a Rottweiler puppy—larger. Venom dripped from her fangs into Rage's molten hair. It sizzled. He didn't notice.

"Anxiety, why are you such a fucking buzzkill? _C'mon_ , let's—why are you angry?"

Vergilius scoffed. So, Rage finally noticed. It was a feedback loop now: the ambient unease of the room influencing him as his presence influenced Vergilius. Or maybe Vergilius didn't need his presence to be influenced.

Maybe Vergilius had just needed a good push.

"I don't know, Rage," he said, far too levelly for the intense buzz condensing in his chest. "Why are you _anxious_?"

Vergilius met his eyes finally. They glowed with a shade of orange he hadn't seen before—rust. Rage had dark, black smears under his eyes, like a toddler had finger-painted charcoal dust over his cheeks. It mixed with the oozing lava to create a terrifying effect: black goo hot enough to incinerate you.

Rage stared at Vergilius as Charlotte descended on a glistening string of silk to the floor behind him. For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed. The feedback loop grew. It expanded. It thrummed. It rejuvenated.

And then that moment ended.

"You motherfucker!" Rage exploded, smashing his bat across Charlotte's fangs. Vergilius screamed. Charlotte squealed in pain and skittered back up to the ceiling while they repaired themselves. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Rage smashed the bat into Vergilius' dresser, snapping it in two. "We're on the same side!" He broke drywall with the next swing, leaving a nine-inch gouge in the wall.

Vergilius scrambled back as Rage advanced. He hit the wall. "Rage—"

"You _son of a bitch_." The bat cracked over Vergilius' shoulder and he screamed. "How could you do that?" The next hit landed on his ribs. "We're _friends_! How could you fuck with me like that?"

Vergilius floundered, groping for a way to defend himself. He wouldn't drag Charlotte or any of the others back into this. He couldn't let them get hurt. Something. Anything. He just needed something to block or disarm him or—

His fingers curled around a familiar hilt and his heart rate faltered. It couldn't be. Hadn't he gotten rid of that when he came out as Anxiety?

"What's _wrong with_ —?"

This time, when Rage brought the bat down on Vergilius' head, Vergilius slashed the air with his machete.

Rage howled. Orange-red blood spurted, and he clutched the stump, bat clattering to the floor as his dismembered forearm fell into Vergilius' lap. Vergilius screamed, shoving it off and scrambling away. Blood puddled on the floor.

"You bitch!" Rage shrieked, lava tears spilling down his rocky cheeks. "You little bitch! I'm gonna kill you for this!"

Already, Rage's arm was growing back. Vergilius didn't have much time. Fear clawed its way up his throat, consuming him. He had to get away. He had to get away. He scrambled around Rage's legs, earning a kick in the busted ribs. He cried out, curling up, but just dragged himself harder and faster across the floor.

 _Get to the door_. It repeated like a mantra, a chant, in his head: the only thought he had room for besides the roar of blind terror. _Get to the door. Get to the door. Just get to the door._ _Get to the_ —

Rage's arm finished re-growing. He picked up his fallen bat.

 _Almost there. Just get to the_ —

_Crack!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Temporary pet death, dangerously angry individual, actively afraid for one's life in a violent confrontation, blood, dismemberment, temporary character death.
> 
> A couple of things: would you guys be interested in a Q&A type deal for this fic on Tumblr? And I'd love to hear any theories you've got about things at this point, about Sides besides Vergilius.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE SWEET ANXIOUS BABY LIVES! 
> 
> _The author would like to apologize for any emotional distress the previous cliffhanger may have caused, but would also like to stress that xe is not responsible for any reader-induced insomnia or FEELS TM. Also, the author would like to stress that it's really only to get worse from here, so buckle in, guys, gals and non-binary pals, because this roller-coaster has only just gotten started._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Aftermath of pseudo-murder, lack of meaningful punishment for murder, graphic imagery; if any of you have had to come out with a chosen name, be forewarned, and if you faced any mockery for that, this might be more upsetting. I intimately know that experience, so I did my best to write it true to character while also being respectful of people who might have histories that would make it more sensitive.

"You sing the words but don't know what it means." ~ "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)" by _My Chemical Romance_

* * *

* * *

VERGILIUS WONDERED WHAT IT WOULD BE LIKE to awaken from death as a real person. Would it be painful? Would it be quick and sudden, or gradual? Would he remember how he had died? Would it be a blissfully, mercifully blank slate?

But those were questions that could never be answered, so when he woke, he woke all at once, with vivid memories of terror, pain, and darkness, to a living room covered in spiderwebs while Aragog dangled from the end of his silk, looking exactly as he should. Vergilius smiled warmly and held out his hand. The little spider lowered himself onto it. Vergilius stroked his head.

"Did I get him right?"

The anxious—in more than just tone; Vergilius could feel it, too—question came from right beside his head and he looked over to see Remus covered in purple ooze, puss, and about five buckets of blood, which had puddled on the floor around him.

Vergilius softened. Remus must have been _really_ anxious.

Just in case, Vergilius glanced around. They weren't in his room, thankfully. Unfortunately, looking around also revealed that Remus wasn't the only one looking after him. Deceit was there, too.

Vergilius' hackles rose, and he sat upright, eyeing Deceit cautiously while focusing as much as his nerves could allow on Remus. "Yeah, Re," he said. "You got him perfect. Thank you so much."

Remus smeared blood and ooze all over him with a hug, but Vergilius didn't mind that much. The stench wasn't even that bad. Only mildly worse than Remus' baseline.

"I'm _not_ glad you're feeling better," Deceit said, examining his gloves. "It _wasn't_ boring waiting for you to wake up that whole time."

Vergilius clenched the fist not occupied by spiders. "Gee," he deadpanned through a glare. "I feel so loved."

Deceit's human eye flicked to him and narrowed. "You should," he said simply, then jerked it toward Remus.

Vergilius didn't trust Deceit—not anymore, and maybe not ever. But even a broken clock is right twice a day. He smiled at Remus, who vibrated; probably from all the gross stuff he was damming up, so he didn't distress Vergilius. It warmed his heart.

"You can let it go, Re," he told him. "It's okay. You won't upset me."

The floodgates burst wide. "Did it hurt? Did you feel your brains ooze all over the floor? I hope you did. That sounds so cool. I'd love to feel my brains ooze. Hey, Anxiety, can you crack my skull open so I can? That'd be so cool! And then I can show Roman, too. Hey! We can go around pranking all your friends on the other side! Won't that be fun? You can take your machete and I'll take my Morningstar and—"

Vergilius didn't enjoy the visuals Remus was providing him and his anxiety spiked a few times, but he managed a neutral expression for the several minutes it took him to get all his dark fantasies out into the open. Remus' expression was difficult to read—haunted. Vergilius had a hunch why.

"Do you actually want to do those things, Re?"

Remus averted his eyes in shame.

"Just because you have to _think about them_ doesn't mean you have to _do them_ ," Vergilius reassured him. "You're more than intrusive thoughts. You're also Thomas' bad-ass half of Creativity. It's okay if you think and imagine those things. That doesn't mean you have to do them."

Remus relaxed a little. "I still wanna brain Roman," he said.

Vergilius snorted. "And I wanna watch."

They high-fived.

"Are you finished with the not-at-all sickening displays?" Deceit interrupted, and Remus giggled. "Good. You will be pleased to know, Anxiety, that Rage is _not_ staying in his room for the foreseeable future. I _haven't_ muted his influence on Thomas, so he won't cause any inopportune incarcerations until he calms down."

Vergilius flashed back to the feeling of wood smashing into bone, crushing his eyes shut. He needed to thank Rage for another crippling anxiety to torment Thomas with, he supposed; right after he chopped him into little pieces with his machete.

His machete. Vergilius couldn't believe he'd used it. Where had it even _come from_? He hadn't seen that thing since his Change, when he was still pretending to be Paranoia, but there it was, when he needed it most. Not that it had done much for him. Rage still terrified him as Anxiety, but Rage didn't fear him. It had been a mismatched fight before it even started. He'd been damned to lose.

Still. His old weapon had felt _so comfortable_ in his hand, for the split-second he held it. It felt like it belonged there; like it was still sized to his exact measurements. He could feel it undulating in his grip even now. He flexed his hand and stared. An empty feeling filled him in the most bizarre, contradictory way anything could.

" _I'll respect your wishes not to associate you with your former self and his compatriots when you, yourself, cease associating with them."_

Vergilius hadn't lied, right? He wasn't Paranoia. Not anymore. That had faded into less than a fragment of who he was now, and not even that strong a fragment. Fear, his earliest incarnation, felt stronger. _He_ felt stronger as Anxiety. As Vergilius.

Vergilius.

Vergilius shot to his feet and paced to the end of the couch, fingernails trapped between his teeth. His mind wouldn't stop racing. Was he actually considering this?

He met Remus' eyes. He was carrying on about something else grotesque while he bloodlessly skinned a corpse he'd summoned. Deceit watched him tatter on with that patented disinterested/attentive expression of his. Vergilius' chest ached. He'd been so wrapped up in his own dilemmas lately, he hadn't spared half as much time for his best friend as he should have. He had his reasons, of course, but looking back, they all fell a little flat.

Remus caught Vergilius' gaze and grinned at him toothily—except instead of teeth, they were gnarly, jagged, gross fingernails. Vergilius made a face but cracked up anyway. He really was like a little kid, sometimes.

Then again, he'd formalized his development when Thomas was at that age where the grossest, bloodiest things in the world all made him cry out, "Cool!" so Vergilius supposed could be expected.

Vergilius.

Vergilius' palms sweat. His loose, comfortable collar felt too tight around his neck. He tugged at it, struggling to breathe. Remus continued on about the horrifying mating habits of otters—"Oh, yes, Remus, because we can _definitely_ trust this factoid isn't made up in that delightful mind of yours"—"No, seriously! Ask Logic!"—and Vergilius' mind raced. It wasn't the anxious thought spiral it usually was. Or maybe it just wore another mask. Either way, he felt dizzy.

Remus was his best friend. His _best friend_. He couldn't trust anyone else with his name, but he could trust him. After all, he'd _curtailed it_ to fit with Remus' preexisting name.

Then again…could Remus keep the secret? Not that Vergilius didn't trust him, but Remus had a pretty big mouth. As Paranoia, Vergilius told him a prank he planned to play on Rage and Remus let the cat out of the bag next dinner because he couldn't activate the "should I say this?" part of his halved brain. It wasn't his fault—he had just been wired that way.

So, what did Vergilius want more? To keep his name out of untrustworthy hands or tell his best friend one of the things that made him happiest?

Nervously, he glanced at Deceit. While the human eye remained trained on Remus, his yellow one was locked on Vergilius. He froze under its scrutiny. Could Deceit hear his thoughts right now? Did he _only_ know when other Sides were lying or could he tell when they were grappling with the truth, too?

Vergilius imagined himself on one of Logan's chessboards, except instead of Logan, Deceit sat at the head of the table, and Vergilius stood along a familiar line of black pawns—the first to move, and therefore, the first to die.

Was that all he meant to Deceit? An expendable, lesser piece, to be discarded in the name of grander ideas, bolder plans?

Vergilius didn't know _when_ he'd sat down, but he was grateful he had; he might have fainted otherwise.

But then Deceit said something that brought even Vergilius' anxious thought train screeching to a halt: "Oh, by the way, there's something…completely unimportant I have to tell you."

Vergilius frowned at him, doubt flaring in his chest, and Remus asked, "Does that mean it's totally important or actually not important?"

Leave it to Remus to ask the dumb, honest questions everyone was wondering, and no one had the nerve to say themselves. Bless him.

That was a remarkably Patton-like thought. Vergilius shuddered and focused.

Deceit stared blankly at Remus. "It means you _didn't_ just spend the last thirty minutes of my time enlightening me about how otters are violent monsters, so now you get to shut up for two while _I_ tell you something."

Remus flushed and averted his eyes. Vergilius shoved forward. "Don't talk to him like that," he snarled.

"It's okay, Anxsy—hey, that nickname works!" Remus giggled. "He's got a point."

"No, he doesn't," Vergilius argued. "You can't let him talk to you like that. It's—"

"What, Anxiety?" Deceit looked at him. His tone was cutting, but something else burned in his eyes. Something…Vergilius didn't know. A strange light, like…Vergilius didn't know. "What is it?"

Vergilius wilted back into the couch. "Just…just don't talk to him like that."

"Why?" Something else was in Deceit's tone now. His yellow eye flickered orange, then subsided to a periwinkle shade for just a moment, and then they swam together until vanishing back into a familiar lemony color. "Because he's delicate? Are you delicate, Remus?"

Remus tilted his head. He tapped his chin and then, spontaneously, his entire body shattered like ceramic. Vergilius screamed and leapt back, but Remus' dismembered mouth just cackled manically. "Yep!"

Deceit snorted and looked at Vergilius as his heart settled back onto its normal pace. "See? Now, may I continue or are you two not done rudely and _stupidly_ interrupting me?"

Remus pieced himself back together. At least he didn't make them painstakingly reassemble him this time. "Sorry, Dee-Dee!"

"Ah, yes, Dee-Dee. Your…delightful nickname for me."

Remus pouted and Vergilius kind of wanted to hug him—a sentiment that kind of horrified him, on further recollection, because he didn't _do_ hugs. He had never done hugs: not as Anxiety, not as Paranoia, and certainly not as the narcoleptic Fear. Well, Paranoia might have hugged people, but only so he could sink a dagger in their back, but that was a different time and a different him.

He flashed back to the machete again and shook it off.

"I thought you liked it," Remus said miserably.

"Oh, no, I am rather fond of it, but you might need to select a different nickname, in light of recent adjustments."

Vergilius tensed and stared at him, eyes widening until they almost bugged out of his head. That conversation in his room, forever ago, when Deceit asked him about his name…

There was no way. Was there?

"I—" Deceit swallowed harshly. His hands shook in his lap. "I—" He snarled, face screwed up as if he could force the words out through pain and intimidation. "My name is Janus."

Crickets chirped in the corner. Water dripped. A pin clinking against the tile floor echoed like a gunshot through the Subconscious.

"Janice?" Remus tilted his head. His lips twitched, and he burst out laughing.

Deceit—no, _Janus_ —stiffened, and Vergilius saw this train headed off the tracks long before it derailed. He could do nothing to stop it.

"That's a _girl's_ name, Dee-Dee! A boring one! Here, I can fix you right up to—"

"No!" Vergilius cut in, flinging his hands up. "Remus, just—I don't think he means _that_ Janice. Well, maybe, and then—but don't just—just let him explain, all right?"

Janus watched Vergilius with something that might just be gratitude. He turned to Remus again. "Quite," he said coldly. "Of course, you and Roman are the _only_ ones in this Mindscape worthy of names. How could I ever forget?"

Remus' face wiped clean. "I didn't mean that," he said. "I didn't mean—" Remus ducked his face from shame, and as much as Vergilius wanted to shield him from that feeling, he knew he rightly deserved it this time. "I'm sorry… _Janus._ " Remus hesitated. "You know…if you ever _do_ wanna switch out to a hoo-hah, I can totally hook you up. Just…so you know."

Janus' expression warmed—but only slightly. "I _don't_ appreciate the offer," he said, "but I _don't_ doubt I'll ever have cause to accept it."

Janus glanced at Vergilius then, and he only then noticed a purple tinge to his eyes, anxious thoughts floating incompletely through his mind. Janus buffered at least half of them, and Vergilius couldn't fathom the remarkable self-control required to keep a Side out of your mind when you'd trespassed over their function so heavily.

He wanted to know how he managed it, but that was a question for another time.

Vergilius swallowed and nodded encouragingly, soothing Janus' anxiety by retracting his control. Janus' shoulders relaxed and he took a deep breath, facing Remus.

"J-A-N-U-S," he spelled out. "Janus. As in the two-faced Roman god of doorways, new beginnings, and choices."

 _Janus_. He'd chosen a name that ended in -us, too. Had he come to the same conclusion Vergilius had when he chose his name, then? That he wanted to identify as part of the rejects, the unwanted Sides, the Unknowns, and the only name he had to go by was Remus? It seemed…bizarre. Ironic. But fitting.

Vergilius' mind snagged on just one thing, though.

"Two-faced?" Vergilius' voice was quiet—almost too quiet for even his own ears.

Janus looked at him, gaze level. He gestured to his halved complexion—one side, a set of scintillating golden scales, the other, smooth and human. "It felt appropriate."

Guilt flared red-hot, then blue-hot, then white-hot in Vergilius' chest as he advanced through the stages of feeling like complete shit. Here he'd been, overanalyzing every little thing Deceit— _Janus_ did, convinced there was some selfish, cruel ulterior motive tucked below the surface, out of sight. He'd been ready to go down with the ship that said he was a conniving, manipulative…well, _snake_ , and somehow, he'd forgotten why any of them were here in the first place.

Rage looked like magma and exploded like a volcano because Thomas saw everything he did as violent and hot and thoughtless. Remus wrapped himself in intestines and tormented himself with his own intrusive thoughts as much as anyone else because Thomas had distilled him down to a simple, unpleasant concept and refused to see him as more complex than that. Vergilius made himself sick with Anxiety, planning ahead for the worst-case scenario of the worst-case scenario until Thomas couldn't sleep and Vergilius couldn't breathe past choked sobs of guilt because, to Thomas, everything Vergilius was could only hinder him from everything he wanted to do. He was an inconvenience. He only held him back.

And _Janus_ …well, he was just the two-faced snake who couldn't tell the truth. His gloves weren't another tool of his machinations; they were his affliction, and Vergilius had blamed him for an illness he couldn't control.

"Wait—you have a name now?" Remus perked up, realization dawning bright in his eyes. "Like me and Roman?" He stopped. "Did you Split from someone else?"

Dark memories flooded Remus' eyes and Vergilius quickly jumped in. "No. No, that's not—I guess that's not the only reason people— _Sides_ — _things_ —around here get names. They also sometimes need them, because…well, we're more complex than just one concept, you know? Like, you're not _just_ intrusive thoughts."

"And I _am_ just deception," Janus said—this time, with unrestrained warmth. Remus had always brought out the best in him.

"By which he means he's not," Vergilius translated, just in case.

Remus considered this for a moment, then summarized, "Cool." He stopped again. "Hey! Wait! What if you picked a name, too, Anxsy? That'd be so awesome! And Janus is from Roman mythology, right? Isn't _my_ name from Roman mythology? Like, I'm the dead brother, right?"

Remus conjured a helpful visual of Roman running him through with his katana and him falling dead to the ground that would haunt Vergilius for the rest of his days. His dead body continued speaking while his skin turned grey, his stomach bloated, and his eyes turned cloudy.

"What if you picked a name from Roman mythology, too, Anxsy? And what if it ended in -us, like ours does? And what if—?"

"It does."

Vergilius' mouth was dry. Remus' mouth clamped shut and suddenly, he was alive again, upright, and attentive, watching him. Vergilius couldn't read Janus' expression, but he knew what he felt. After all, he'd had just done this, himself.

"My…my name," Vergilius clarified, voice irrationally raspy. "It…it ends in -us, too."

Remus pouted a little. "Oh." He faltered. "Wait, so you _do_ have a name?" Betrayal flashed in his eyes, and Vergilius' heart clenched so much, he worried it would squish into a tiny, dense little ball and never recover.

"Remus…"

" _Don't_ remember, Remus," Janus cut in. "A name _isn't_ a very personal thing. This is _definitely_ because Anxiety doesn't trust you or anyone else. After all, a large part of his entire existence _isn't_ to agonize and overthink every little thing until it consumes him. That isn't important to keep in mind _at all_."

Vergilius stared at him. Warmth, gratitude, guilt, relief—it flooded him all at once. It made him a little dizzy again; this time, in a good way.

Childlike though he could be, Remus caught the backwards speech easily. He softened, nodding at Vergilius. "Okay, Anxsy. Or…whatever you want me to call you."

Vergilius shoved to his feet and paced away. He glimpsed Remus behind him, but Janus rested a gentle hand on his arm. Neither of them said anything. They just waited.

"It…my name…the name I…that I chose…it's…"

He tugged aggressively at his collar. Why was it so tight all of the sudden? Who turned the Subconscious into a sauna? It wasn't helping. Vergilius paced grooves into the floor—literally, as Remus etched them into the tile following him. The cobwebs around him multiplied. Was he responsible for them being here in the first place? He'd assumed Remus and Deceit— _Janus_ ; God, was Vergilius ever going to get used to that?—had brought them in to transition him smoother back to life away from the negative effects of his room. Anansi and Aragog appeared on either of his shoulders, and a second later, Charlotte was also there, atop his head.

Only then did Vergilius realize he hadn't said anything in several minutes. Anxiety clawed its way up his throat. He shook his arms out.

"You _definitely_ must tell us your name, Anxiety, no matter how uncomfortable it makes you," Janus assured him. "This is a wholly _un_ safe space and we _will_ condemn you, no matter what you choose."

Vergilius took a deep breath and nodded, turning to face them through a heavy exhale. Their expressions were so different—Janus, a cool, collected, blank state; Remus, an innocent, wide-eyed curiosity that burned through Vergilius in the best way.

 _This_ , Vergilius thought. _This_ was what family was supposed to be. He was safe here. With them. He couldn't believe he'd ever doubted that.

"Vergilius," he said, only a little quickly and fearfully. "My name is Vergilius."

It had been the first time since choosing it he'd said his name aloud. After he claimed it for himself, there hadn't really been need to _say it_. He thought it, identified with it, for years now, and that was all he needed. But standing before Janus and Remus—before his _family_ —like this, now, stripped to his emotional underbelly at the mercy of their opinion or their scorn, was another matter entirely. 

It was invigorating and too completely terrifying for words.

For a moment, no one answered. Janus and Remus just stared at him, levelly. They didn't speak. They didn't move. They didn't respond.

Then Remus broke into a smile. "Can I call you Virge?"

Vergilius felt millions of pounds of anxiety, pressure, and fear melt off his shoulders. "Sure, buddy," he said. "You can call me whatever you want."

Janus pushed to his feet and strode over, hand outstretched. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Vergilius," he said solemnly, almost like a vow.

Vergilius beamed and clasped his hand. "Nice to meet you, too, _Janus._ "

Janus beamed, but something occurred to Vergilius just as he released his hand and let his own fall back to his side. Janus was still wearing his glove— _both_ gloves. Vergilius was pretty sure, looking back, that he hadn't taken them off the entire time they were talking.

Not even to reveal his name.

Remus jump-tackled Janus with BDSM restraints and Janus made a production of complaining about it, even while he suppressed laughter and Remus cackled manically. Neither of them noticed the expression on Vergilius' face.

* * *

It was Thomas' birthday again—kind of a yearly thing, that—and whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not, he didn't look forward to it. Which, of course, meant Vergilius had to drop in to remind him of that before he could wade too deep into the waters of a different De Nial.

After Roman, Vergilius and Logan had all appeared to cast doubt on Patton's excitement for the occasion and Thomas recovered from his alarm—wait, Roman and Logan were on his side?

"I'm not alone on this one?" Vergilius looked around, smirking a little despite himself. He puffed up. Things really had started looking up. "Cool."

" _So_ nice to see you, Anxiety, working _together_ with my logical and fanciful side," Thomas said sarcastically.

"It is!" Patton jumped up and down and clapped.

Logan frowned. "Really? I would expect something like that to distress you, Thomas, knowing your historical dislike for Anxiety's contributions."

Vergilius winced but didn't pay the comment much mind. Logan probably didn't mean anything by it—despite their parting words last time they talked. "Logan, Patton, guys. Sarcasm."

Patton pouted and Logan's ears turned pink. "Ah. Right."

Roman sputtered. "Wait, what was that?" He gestured at three of them. "I mean—no! Don't be fooled, Thomas, this is temporary truce and nothing more, founded on the happenstance overlap in familiar sentiments that are swift to be disproven as alike, I'm sure, as soon as I appeal to you with _my_ perspective on this matter."

Vergilius stared at him disbelievingly. "And I thought Logan was long-winded."

"Hey!" Logan cried as Roman snapped, "Shut it, Surly Temple."

"Surly—how many of those you _got_?"

"Gee, what's everyone so serious about?" Patton asked, tilting his head and smiling happily. "It's Thomas' birthday! It's not serious time. It's fun time!"

Vergilius almost felt bad, the three of them coming in here like a desolation squad to rain on his parade.

Almost.

"That," Logan said. "That, Morality, is precisely the problem. You never think _any_ time is the time for seriousness."

At least, until Logan said _that_.

Vergilius gave him a cautioning look. Patton _did_ exercise seriousness, especially when it came to, you know, _moral rights and wrongs_. Even if he didn't always have the best ideas, he was capable of sobriety. The Unknowns wouldn't be using Vergilius as subterfuge if Patton _wasn't_.

Or was it just Janus? Vergilius wondered—if that was even his real name.

Vergilius shrugged off the urge to hug himself as Patton rebutted, "It's just that Thomas should be happy with the milestones that he gets! We wouldn't want to be ungrateful, and Thomas is so lucky to get to have another birthday!"

Sorry though Vergilius felt for the paternal type, he couldn't resist an opening like that. "Ah, but a birthday also brings something else, sadly enough. The awareness of the passage of time, how far you've actually come, how little time you have left…"

Thomas whimpered.

"And now here you are," Vergilius continued, "but is here where you _should_ be?"

"I don't think that's the problem," Logan cut in. "This is indeed Thomas' apartment."

Vergilius closed his eyes and sighed. "I meant—is he _happy_ with where he is in life? Right now?"

"Ah!" Logan brightened and turned to Thomas. "Yes, that is where I was coming from."

"Loath as I am to admit it," Roman said, "I must agree with these two. Thomas, there's so much more we've— _you've_ —dreamt of doing. Broadway. The silver screen. And are we there yet? Nay!"

"Moo!" Patton exploded. Vergilius only turned into a spider from alarm again for, like, _one millisecond_. "Animal noises! Go!"

"Baah—wait, no!" Logan shook his head forcefully. "Now isn't the time for word association—even if they are quite fun—no! It's time for _seriousness_. Thomas, you are falling short on not only your career aspiration, but also your adult responsibilities. There is the business side, the creative, but then there's also your social commitments, your personal health, groceries, hygiene—"

"I get it!" Thomas exploded, holding his head.

"Oh, those are just the categories," Logan continued, materializing a binder in his hand. "We haven't even gotten into the specifics yet."

"Okay! Okay, but…I still have time for all that."

Vergilius and Roman both made dubious noises, and Vergilius arched an eyebrow at Roman while he fixed him with a contemptuous glare that seemed to flash orange for a fraction of a second. Vergilius flashed back to his room, Rage's rampage…

"Right?" Thomas' voice was tinged in fear, and Vergilius yanked back on his influence. He didn't want Thomas picking up on his weird fragmented psyche PTSD just because he was sensitive about getting murdered by his own friend.

"You sure do!" Patton said encouragingly.

"I don't know," Vergilius asked him gravely. " _Do you_?" Hey, reining his influence in was not the same as ignoring his job. "I mean, life is short. Any day could be your last."

Thomas groaned miserably.

"Okay!" Patton threw his hands up. He sounded nervous now, a subtle purple glow in his eyes. "Okay, just…hold on. Now, I know we tend to overthink a couple things."

"A couple?" Logan questioned.

" _But_ ," Patton continued a little forcefully, anxiety spiking.

Vergilius had the urge to pull back his influence, but he couldn't. They needed Patton and Thomas to understand this. Thomas didn't _just_ struggle with overly stratified ideas of good and evil. He also needed to get the rest of his life in order, too.

Idly, Vergilius wondered when that had sunk in for him. When had his priorities shifted from enlightening Thomas on the nuance to good and bad to guiding Thomas to a more balanced lifestyle, altogether? When had he started _caring_ about that? When had that become his job, too?

"A birthday is—well, a birthday!" Patton was still saying. "Getting older should be celebrated."

"I don't know, Patton," Thomas finally relented, deflating. A bad feeling settled hard in Vergilius' stomach. Something…something was off.

And so, it continued—around and around again, Roman and Logan sparing occasional jabs at Patton, who deflated a little more the longer things dragged on. Vergilius kept up as best he could, but he couldn't shake that bad feeling. This wasn't _right_. The feeling grew until the urge to scream almost overwhelmed him.

Didn't they _understand_? Didn't they know what Patton protected them from? What he protected _Thomas_ from? Vergilius was his frontline defender and Rage was the first to start a fight for him, but there were things they couldn't keep him safe from. There were things they were too close to, things that could hurt—that _would_ hurt. Things like selfish decisions, like violent fantasies, like Deceit—

No. Vergilius didn't mean that. He meant—he meant _deceit_. Lowercase. Lying too much would get Thomas into trouble—no! No, he meant—he meant _being lied to_.

But Patton was too trusting to catch when someone else was lying to Thomas. That fell to Logan and Vergilius, mostly, and Janus, too—especially Janus, which was just ironic when he lied to everyone around him so damn much, they couldn't be sure which way the sky was anymore.

 _The_ _gloves_ , Vergilius thought hopelessly. He wanted to be sick.

And then Thomas was in a button-down and tie and Vergilius kind of wanted to punch him. Logan dabbing about his glasses was hardly the craziest part about any of this, but that didn't mean Vergilius let it go any easier.

And then, finally— _finally_ —the realization dawned.

"Patton," Logan began, sheepishly, adjusting his glasses. "What are we doing… _wrong_?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergilius sees his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm...really sorry this is late, guys. I didn't post Friday because I imagined a lot of people who read my stuff would be celebrating the holiday (although that might have been presumptuous), and it wasn't exactly themed. In fact, it's a bucket full of angst. And then I...maybe found a bootleg of a musical I've wanted to see since it was announced that's been closed, probably forever? I am but a poor theater nerd. I cannot be blamed for succumbing to the need to consume content.
> 
> Actually, I totally can. Again, sorry this is so late.
> 
> Warnings: Vomiting

"Don't mind us, we're just spilling our guts. / If this is love, I don't wanna be loved. / You pollute the room with a filthy tongue. / Watch me choke it down so I can throw it up." ~ "Sarcasm" by _Get Scared_

* * *

* * *

FOR THE FIRST TIME, Vergilius _aimed_ for the Mind Palace after the meeting adjourned. He didn't entirely know what he was doing, but that damn bad feeling wouldn't let up, so he summoned a plate of cookies. He had his doubts about their edibility, but he summoned them anyway.

"Patton!" he called when he glimpsed a light blue shirt and cardigan head upstairs. "Patton, hang on!"

Patton turned around with a smile. Vergilius didn't know how sincere it was, but he still jogged back down to talk to him. "Hey, kiddo. Can I help you with anything?"

"Uh…" Vergilius felt like an idiot. What did he expect? Why should Patton forgive him? He was one-third to _half_ the reason he was treated so badly by his own family. Patton probably hated him now.

No, definitely hated him. He had every reason in the world to. Vergilius was one of _them_. He'd been banished to the Subconscious for a reason. He was bad. Bad for Thomas, bad for Patton—probably even bad for himself, because he made himself sick all the time, thinking about how little he could trust what Janus—or Deceit—or _whoever_ he was told him, living in constant fear of the next time Rage went on a rampage. Even Remus' creative explosions left him struggling to stay lucid. Vergilius was a mess—a useless, confused mess who couldn't make up his mind on what _wrong_ meant.

When had _right and wrong_ become such a damn trigger for him?

"Are those cookies?"

Vergilius snapped his attention back to Patton's wide eyes. Unlike Remus, they didn't literally expand beyond their natural confines, which Vergilius felt guiltily thankful for.

"Uh…yeah." Vergilius rubbed the back of his neck and then, caught…cookie-handed, thrust the plate toward Patton. "I just wanted to say…you know…sorry. For…all that. We shouldn't have just—that was kinda…you know… _shitty_. Of us. I just—I'm not saying Thomas doesn't need to get his act together, but—oh my God, why are you crying?"

Sure enough, little crystals of moisture were gathering in the corners of Patton's eyes. They sparkled. His lip quivered.

Vergilius panicked. "Oh God, I'm sorry! I didn't mean—please don't cry!" Just the mental image of him in tears was worse than Remus' worst fantasies; Vergilius couldn't fathom what the reality would be like. "Do you—can I get someone?" Vergilius would perform the hokey-pokey if it meant cheering him up. "What do you need? I'll— _oof_!"

The last came because Patton had flung his arms around his midsection and _squeezed_. Vergilius' eyes bulged out of his head. Had his ribs just cracked? He couldn't get air in.

Then again, he didn't actually need to _breathe_ , so if oxygen was the price he had to pay to cheer Patton up, he'd willingly make that sacrifice. Vergilius patted him on the back.

"There…there?" Vergilius was pretty sure the only Side in the entire Mindscape capable of comforting not-quite-people was the exact one in need of comfort right now. After all, Vergilius certainly didn't qualify.

Yet here he was. In hell. Was this penance for all the times he scared Rage out of his magma-y wits on Halloween because Paranoia found it hilarious to watch him swing his bat around and scream like a girl?

That memory didn't elicit the same kind of amusement it once did. It just made that sick feeling in Vergilius' stomach worse.

Just as Vergilius resolved to put on a clown nose and sing "Kumbaya" to bring a smile back to Patton's face, he cried, "You're so sweet!"

Wait, what?

Patton pulled back, smile blinding. Was that…was that sincere? Vergilius searched his eyes for a yellow tinge. Nope. Still that weird, periwinkle-tinged brown with a heart-shaped pupil.

That really should have been creepier than it was.

"You made me _cookies_?" Patton squealed—a prolonged, high-pitched sound that gave Vergilius a migraine. He couldn't help but be impressed. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me!"

Vergilius knew that had to be an exaggeration. Logan and Roman could be assholes, but there was no way a spontaneously conjured plate of _cookies_ was the nicest thing Patton had ever received.

If it was, Vergilius might just sheath his fear of Rage long enough to point him in the direction of the Conscious Mind with a hitlist.

Looking back, Vergilius wasn't sure when his opinion of Patton had shifted from "that obnoxious bastard who keeps all of us in the dark and refuses to compromise on his defunct 'morality' long enough to consider the grey area" to "someone he would literally die/kill for."

Maybe it had been when Patton welcomed him, newly Changed, into his family without knowing who he was or where he came from. Sure, he went back on that offer as soon as he found out what Virgil was, but he waited for him in the Conscious Mind when Thomas chose to acknowledge him as an undeniable part of him with a plate of cookies.

Kind of like the plate of cookies now sitting on a table a few feet away, where Patton must have moved them before hugging him.

Roman alternated between bickering with him contemptuously to threatening to pull his katana and Logan either tolerated him because he was "less sunny" than the others or told him his family made him undesirable. But even though Patton knew he went back to the Subconscious after every video, he still defended him. He still gave him the benefit of the doubt when he volunteered his opinion in their dilemmas, even if it just caused them more trouble than it was worth.

Patton called him "kiddo." Kind of like a real family. Kind of like he had adopted him.

Janus had never so much as said he loved him.

Vergilius doubled over and puked.

Patton cried out and leapt back. Vergilius didn't expel vomit the same way as a real person; it wasn't a combination of stomach acid and what he just ate. It was tar, thick as it dragged its way down his throat and out of his mouth. It smoked when it hit the ground, melting the carpet like acid. It burned him from the inside out. It was blacker than the shadows of Vergilius' room. Blacker than a moonless night. Blacker than his soul.

 _No_ , Vergilius thought, utterly spent as Patton supported him, fuzzily combing his hair back with his fingers while cooing. _It was blacker than the Subconscious._

Vergilius snapped the mess away and sunk to his knees. Patton started screaming for Logan, but Vergilius held up his hand. He looked at him through watery eyes. He didn't know if the tears were a reaction to the violent gagging or the grief.

"Can I see my room?" he asked quietly.

Patton hesitated. "Can't you just…can't you just, you know…?" He mimed sinking out.

Vergilius swallowed and shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "My room on this side."

Patton's eyes widened, but he didn't question it. He helped Vergilius struggle back to his feet, knees knocking, and stabilized him for a moment before he pulled away from him. Vergilius gripped the stairwell railing for dear life, leveraging himself up one step at a time.

He could have just _appeared_ there. Distance was an abstract construct here. It didn't limit them the same way it did Thomas. Even weak, Vergilius could have materialized at the top of stairs, in front of where he remembered his insubstantial, unstable front door to be. In fact, it would have been easier than dragging himself in a physical parody up the steps.

Something about that felt sacrilegious, though, and so, instead, he climbed.

Patton pulled up the rear, constantly showering him with concern. "Are you okay?" "Are you sure you want to do this?" "Do you need help?" "I can get you some Tums." Vergilius ignored it all.

This was hard enough without engaging in conversation.

And there it was—a slate grey, ghostly in color and appearance. It shimmered against the wall at the end of the hall, not entirely committed to its location. Sensing its owner's hesitation, his fractured allegiances, his overwhelming guilt.

But looking at it now, Vergilius swore he could see a purple iridescence in the grey. Before, it could have been a trick of the light, but now, it was _there_ , occasionally even solidifying for a fraction of a second. The doorknob radiated cold when Vergilius let his hand hover over it.

His gut twisted. The sick feeling intensified until he wondered if it would eat him alive. Part of him wanted it to—wanted it to consume him, shred him, destroy him for even thinking about this. How could he consider a betrayal this severe?

They were his family. The Us family.

A family that had been cannibalizing itself since its conception. Where one of them killed their family member's pets and then their family member for avenging them. Where one of them lied so much, the truth was richer than gold. Where one performed their own death and couldn't curb the waterfall of horrifying scenarios spewing from their mouth at all times.

A family that had given him a home when no one else had.

But the Subconscious wasn't his only option anymore. There had been another, waiting for him, right here, for months. Calling to him. Singing lilting lullabies from its shadowy alcove every time the fear and doubt got too much.

And Vergilius had been deaf to it all.

He gripped the doorknob.

" _Hey, Paranoia! If you find this cocky fuck, cut him into little pieces for me."_

" _You're no fun anymore."_

" _You're the closest to an ally I have in this. Hurting you would just be counterproductive."_

Vergilius trembled, choking on a sob. The doorknob rattled.

" _You little bitch! I'm gonna kill you for this!"_

Vergilius' knees almost gave way. Tears burned his eyes.

" _And I am just deception."_

Vergilius turned the doorknob.

It wasn't what he expected. Then again, he didn't know if he'd expected anything. An exact replica of his room in the Subconscious? Sunshine and rainbows? A perfect marriage of the two?

There were fewer cobwebs. The whole place felt…smaller, which should have made him more anxious, but actually settled him. It wasn't as dark, either. It looked almost twilit, with a comforting, dim, greyish glow permeating the atmosphere. A clock on the far wall sped through the hours in minutes. Spider-decorated curtains hung from one wall. The room was furnished, shifting between purposes. A black and purple bedspread that he didn't quite understand, but discovered he liked, and a lava lamp. A rustic wardrobe in the corner. A worn couch with a laptop. It looked like a newer model than the one he'd been using, but he doubted that affected that much besides aesthetics.

Vergilius stared as it shifted around, almost as if showing itself off, trying to prove itself the better option.

Patton stayed to his left, a few paces away. He didn't try to look inside. He wrung his hands in front of him. "Do you like it?"

Vergilius almost didn't notice his anxiety. He didn't answer.

Patton was silent for a moment. "If…if you wouldn't mind me asking—and it's fine if you don't want to answer!" Vergilius glanced at him to see his eyes shining. It didn't hit him the same way it had mere minutes ago. It felt like years now. "But…you always wanted to go back to them before." Patton gulped. "What changed?"

Vergilius stared at him. "I did."

Patton's brow furrowed in concern. Vergilius turned back to his room, guilt toiling in his stomach. Something appeared on the far wall in front of the kitchen: a picture of the Unknowns, with one of Remus' Eldritch Horrors photo-bombing in the background, Janus stroking the head of his cane, Rage bracing his bat on his hand, Remus eating his Morningstar like a lollipop, and Vergilius crouching in front of them, glaring at the camera like it insulted Charlotte. Janus' hand rested on his shoulder.

Vergilius didn't remember ever taking the picture, but it still yanked a sob from his throat.

" _That tears it! Those fuckers can't come in here, tell us how to live our lives, and then_ hurt one of us _! I'm killing them!"_

" _How did you choose a name?"_

" _I won't tell Deceit. Don't leave me, too."_

" _We're_ friends _! How could you fuck with me like that?"_

" _Oh, by the way, there's something…completely unimportant I have to tell you."_

" _You are safe, in the Subconscious, with your family."_

Vergilius hung his head in shame. He heard footsteps but didn't look.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Roman demanded.

Vergilius lifted his head to look at Roman—irate, fuming, nostrils flaring. He looked rather a lot like Rage, just more handsome.

Patton tried to console him "Now, kiddo—"

"Just leaving," Vergilius said, and sunk out.

* * *

Vergilius huddled up against the headboard in his room—the room he had down in the Subconscious. Not that it was really _down_. If it needed a direction, a closer one would be _adjacent_ —adjacent to the Mind Palace, to the Conscious Mind, to all the places causing Vergilius to reconsider his entire life. Tucked inside the shadows that brilliant light couldn't reach—like the Elephant Graveyard in _The Lion King._

If Vergilius was drawing those parallels now, he'd been spending too much time with Roman.

Roman, who flagrantly and shamelessly hated him. Roman, who was the antithesis of his best friend—the friend whose name he had tailored his to match. The friend Janus had tailored _his_ name to match.

Unless Janus predicted Vergilius' choice and found a believable name that would expel any of Vergilius' lingering doubt—unaware that Vergilius had already figured out how he worked; that he would know, when the disbelief and elation faded, that he had lied to him.

Janus—no, Vergilius thought, _Deceit_ —lied. He lied to _trick Vergilius into telling him his name_.

" _A name_ isn't _a very personal thing."_

Vergilius wondered if that had been a truth in disguise—the application of emphasis on a word Jan—Deceit knew would be misinterpreted as more backwards speech.

Then again, if that was true, he would have been honest about his own name.

Someone was anxious. Someone else, that is. Vergilius spared a moment to check who and discovered Rage, sitting in the living room opposite Deceit and Remus, with metal slivers shredded in his lap.

" _What the hell is this about?" he snapped. "You tell me to stay in my room until the cows start stampeding the butchers and then drag me out like this? What? Are you going to banish me? Because I_ lost my temper _? Anxiety isn't even dead! It's—"_

" _That is_ definitely _why we brought you here," Deceit told him, rolling his eyes._

 _Remus lit up. "What if they didn't stampede?" he cried. "What if they_ ate _them? What if they filled all four stomachs with butcher meat—_ literal _butcher meat—and then they had to puke them back up—"_

Vergilius flashed back to his strange, tarlike vomit and winced.

"— _and then—"_

" _Can you_ shut up _?" Rage demanded, anxiety spiking. "What the fuck is this all about, then?"_

_Deceit and Remus exchanged a look. Remus sobered, fingers tapping restlessly on his knee while he struggled to dam up his many, many insane ideas. Some anxiety rolled off him now, and Vergilius learned what this was about before Rage did._

_They were going to tell him._

Vergilius buried his head between his knees, gasping. He couldn't tell if he was having a panic attack or fighting tears. He didn't suppose it mattered anymore.

" _J…just that Dee-Dee wanted to ask you something." Remus barely recovered from the near-slip. Deceit shot him a cautioning look._

Vergilius wanted to be sick again, this time for a different reason. How committed was he to this lie? How steadfast would he defend it?

Would he ever tell them the truth? About _anything_?

" _Likely inform you, actually." Deceit faced Rage again. "Were you aware that Sides could choose names to better encapsulate their full being?"_

Vergilius didn't know how much Rage needed a name, but he supposed it was only fair. Still, "Rage" seemed to sum him up fairly well.

_Rage stared at him in disbelief. Remus' anxiety was such Vergilius could gaze through his eyes instead of Rage's now, which felt far more comfortable. And made Vergilius feel far more guilty._

" _What?"_

" _You can choose a name," Deceit reiterated. "A proper name, the way Thomas has a name. The way normal, living people do—albeit, I_ wouldn't _imagine, with a fair bit more symbolism in the choice."_

_Rage didn't answer for a while. "But I didn't Split."_

_Remus flinched._

Vergilius desperately wished he could be there, to comfort Remus the way Patton had comforted him—by being close. By supporting him in silence, with understanding. By being a good friend.

But Vergilius wasn't a good friend. He was a terrible friend. A tear rolled down his cheek.

" _A Split_ is definitely _necessary to justify a name," Deceit told Rage. "It isn't like each of us are more complex and multifaceted than our limited titles would suggest. Remus is nothing more than intrusive thoughts. I am simply Deceit."_

Vergilius was starting to wonder if that was the truth, after all.

" _Anxiety is_ only _Anxiety. The only thing you ever contribute is raw Rage."_

_Rage's face twitched._

Vergilius tensed. That light in his eyes—not a magma glow, not the glint of Rage—it felt…it felt familiar.

Guilt curdled in his stomach.

" _Does that mean you have a name?" For once, Rage's voice wasn't boisterous, or even tight. It hummed along, almost neutrally._

_Deceit took a deep breath. "Yes," he said. "My name—" Remus rested a hand on his thigh. "My name is Janus."_

Vergilius gripped his hair and rocked. Deceit committed so thoroughly to that, preaching it like gospel. Could it _actually_ be his name? Had Vergilius seen ulterior motives where they didn't exist? Had he just betrayed Deceit's trust by calling him a liar when he'd confided something sensitive and difficult in him?

He didn't know anymore. He didn't know _anything_ anymore. Up was right. Right was down. Down was hell.

And Vergilius was down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is late, guys, but...life got sucky again and I'm now being denied a therapist. Again. If you can spare a few comments after you're done with this update...please do?


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergilius remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2021, baby!
> 
> This year isn't going to fix all our problems and if we want the world to get better, we're going to need to do everything in our power to change things for the better ourselves. The vaccine is out there, but still remember to respect social distancing and mask etiquette until the curve flattens completely. Remember that just because you personally aren't at risk, there are a lot of good people who are, and a few of them are quite likely close to you. Hold your political leaders accountable, if you are of an age and in a place to, but most of all, remember to be grateful for being here, because we survived, guys. Now here's to a 2021 as awesome as 2020 was shitty.
> 
> Warnings: Minor character death, narrative that could be interpreted as somewhat psychopathic, violence, gross imagery, mention of pe**philia (from the perspective of a child who worries about the possibility), blood, anal protrusions (Remus, who else?)
> 
> Also, read this chapter with a keen eye, because I've sprinkled some suggestions of big revelations that won't come to fruition until the second part, and I'd love to hear your guys' theories.

"Been looking forward to the future, / but my eyesight is going bad. / It's always cloudy except for / when you look into the past." ~ "Thnks fr th Mmrs" by _Fall-Out Boy_

* * *

* * *

Virgil rises from his beanbag and paces across his room as it bleeds around him. He stops in front of a full-length mirror, studying his reflection. Patchwork black and purple hoodie, distressed skinny jeans, pale face. Tears he hadn't felt himself shed have dried onto his cheeks, leaving his eyeshadow as translucent streaks of grey-black.

Virgil snaps his fingers. The tear streaks vanish and he once again looks his normal, never-presentable self. He considers this appearance, too, for a moment, before he relents and touches the mirror.

The silvery surface ripples like liquid mercury, and he thinks the image that appears might be as toxic as that element, too.

His bleached face contrasts sharply with his black eyes—blacker than coal; blacker than the darkest night without moon or stars or streetlight. Skintight leather, silver chains, and spikes cling to the lanky contours of his body. Virgil doesn't know why he lets him have purple accents amidst the black, too; maybe because purple has become such an inextricable part of him, even his past iterations don't look right without it.

Paranoia glares back at Virgil, and Virgil stares numbly at him. Paranoia's eyes burn with pure hate, and Virgil's ache with shame.

Three heartbeats pass, and Virgil brushes his fingers over the glass. Paranoia disappears, but his presence lingers on.

* * *

Vergilius couldn't tell you what compelled him to reach back in his memory, chasing the recollections of another him, from another time. Maybe he'd unconsciously done it in pursuit of clarity; maybe he'd hoped Paranoia could shed light on where and how Vergilius fit into Deceit's schemes, or his heart; maybe he just wanted to punish himself. Either way, he found himself diving into the inky depths of his mental Penseive, praying something in his past might light the way through his present.

* * *

Deceit paused in front of a tapestry to face Paranoia while the inconstancy of Limbo undulated around them. "The Subconscious _isn't_ a…colorful place," he warned him. "We _don't_ often kill each other for sport—although we _do_ always stay dead."

Paranoia flexed his hand around the hilt of his machete. Suspicion burned hot in his gut, and he narrowed his eyes at Deceit. "Like I care?" he demanded.

Deceit quirked his lip. "I thought so," he said. "You'll get along famously."

Deceit lifted the tapestry to reveal a swirling vortex around a fourth-dimensional staircase leading deep into the pitch blackness.

 _Years in the future, Vergilius whimpered; just_ remembering _that deep, dark expanse of uncertainty had him trembling from fear_.

But Paranoia didn't even flinch. He considered the portal with distrust, eyes flicking between it and Deceit. He jerked his machete toward it. "After you," he said darkly. His fingers flexed restlessly around the hilt.

Deceit chuckled, tossing his cane and catching it around the middle before wandering ahead into the darkness. Paranoia brought up his rear, cold steel glinting in the corner of his eye all the while.

Neither of them would reemerge for some time.

* * *

The Subconscious looked like a dim version of Thomas' childhood living room, with a handful of wispy apparitions lingering the densest shadows and a few sickly-looking Sides pinballing about like they couldn't stop moving. Out of the dozen Sides there, only two appeared in relative health: one with a fiery scalp and the other dripping some kind of viscous fluid with green lace and fluff sticking up off his black leotard. They both carried blunt force weapons and panted like they'd been running around for an hour.

"Dee-Dee!" the lacy one exclaimed, flinging himself at Deceit. Paranoia tumbled away and stopped in a crouch by the wall when the overeager Side's arms elongated to wrap around Deceit like rope, holding him in place. "Thomas found a dildo!"

"I know," Deceit purred, a little strained. His cane was trapped between him and the weird Side's body. "I'm the one who made him think it was modern art."

_Vergilius shuddered at the memory. He hadn't even been privy the moment and the idea still creeped him out._

Paranoia didn't bat an eye, sweeping his gaze over the Subconscious. Every shifting shadow and glimpse of movement had him tightening his hold on his machete, ready for anything to attack him, already imagining how he'd cut them to pieces if they tried.

The fiery one summoned a grappling hook that held down three pinballing Sides, huffing and smacking his hands together as if to dust them off. When he turned, Paranoia saw mismatched eyes—one cloudy and dull, like milk diluted with water, and the other a brilliant, scintillating orange—and a malformed face, like a caveman's.

" _Where_ in the hecking H-E-double-hokey-sticks _hell_ have you _been_?" he demanded, stomping over and dragging a heavy club along behind him. "Sure, just fracking _leave us_ to rein these nutjobs in all on our own. Great idea. Remus _totally_ won't crown himself King Lunatic and make me drink something disgusting that makes me have to kill him fifty times just to get the taste out of my mouth."

The lacy one—Remus, apparently—cackled maniacally, and a pogo stick erupted from the seam at the back of his pants. He bounced on it. "It's _Duke_ Lunatic to you, peasant! Mwahahaha!" A stick of deodorant appeared in his hand and he took a bite out of it.

Paranoia blinked.

Deceit sighed heavily. "I'm _sure_ that's a totally hypothetical situation that did not, in fact, occur while I was away searching for other rejected Sides?"

Remus conjured a much larger, six-foot tall wall of solid deodorant he preoccupied himself carving.

The fiery one whistled innocently before braining a passing Side. "It was his fault," he accused, pointing at the splayed Side as he peeled himself off the floor weakly.

Paranoia smiled.

_Vergilius could feel the expression spread across Paranoia's face without any positive emotion to accompany it besides a cold, uninterested amusement—like the bloodshed itself entertained him and nothing about the awkwardness beyond it, if even that. Seeing through Paranoia's eyes brought an uncomfortable chill to Vergilius, and he hugged his hoodie tighter around his body, burrowing into a ball._

"How many times do I have to tell you not to attack the weak ones, Rage?" Deceit demanded hotly, helping the sick Side to his feet and guiding him away. "They can _certainly_ defend themselves like we can."

Rage averted his eyes in shame. Paranoia, however, felt no shame for whatever amusement he'd felt at the Side's suffering.

Someone bumped hard into Paranoia. He launched to his feet, something hot blazing in his chest, brandishing his machete and bellowing. A cane intercepted him, though, and Paranoia paused then to consider the unfocused eyes of his would-be victim. The Side's face was painted in desaturated whites and blues and reds; he wore a cartoonish frown with a massive tear frozen on his dull, wispy features. Even as he stood there, bits of him flaked away and floated off like ash.

Paranoia stared, mesmerized.

"Unhappiness?" Deceit said. "Unhappiness, wai—" Deceit tried to stop him, but he had already Faded to smoke. Deceit hung his head. "That was Unhappiness." He lifted his eyes to meet Paranoia's. "They always get confused right before they go."

_Vergilius wondered if the look in Deceit's eyes then had truly been grief. How could you fake something that raw and terrible? Then again, Deceit was a master manipulator—but what did he stand to gain from showing that kind of weakness to Paranoia? Had he really cared so deeply about some mute Side who'd come to him with an expiration date? That didn't sound like the ruthless puppeteer Vergilius knew so well._

_Then again, the years had dulled his memory in other places, it seemed; maybe Deceit had once cared deeply and painfully about every lost Side. Maybe years trapped within the Subconscious, watching Side after Side Fade with the Knowns never bothering to notice them missing, had forged him into something cruel._

_After all, wasn't there a saying? "Evil isn't born; it's made."_

Paranoia considered the empty space where Unhappiness had just stood, lowering his machete. He wondered what caused Fades—if it was this place, or circumstance, or if the fiery Side and lacy Side and Deceit made any extraneous Sides disappear after long enough in their charge, just to thin the crowd. Paranoia tightened his grip on his machete and watched his "allies" warily. He glimpsed Deceit's sorrowful expression and hesitated.

He retired the suspicion that Deceit had somehow murdered the Side, but Vergilius felt nothing that suggested he _felt for_ Deceit or the deceased.

But then the other Sides noticed Paranoia and the moment was forgotten.

"Fresh meat!" the fiery one cried, bounding over.

"Ooh! New playmate! New playmate!" Remus bounced over on his ass-stick.

Deceit took a deep breath and straightened, resting his cane against the ground. "Everyone, meet our newest pariah, Paranoia. Paranoia, I would like you to meet our allies, Remus and Rage."

"Paranoia, eh?" Rage scowled. "Aren't you the one Logic fucking _hates_?"

"What do you think about octopuses?" Remus asked, bouncing up and down with his legs crossed in the lotus position. "Did you know they fart ink when they're scared and they've got a massive terrifying beak they can crush you with when they eat you? And they move really fast!"

Paranoia narrowed his eyes and traced a finger over the length of his machete. "Where are they?"

"In the ocean! And aquariums!"

Paranoia met Remus' eyes. "Can you show me how they kill?"

Remus' expression shifted and his eyes shined like Paranoia had just told him he could keep the demon Krampus as a pet and have Evil Christmas every day of the year for the rest of his life. "You really want me to?"

"How am I supposed to keep Thomas safe if I don't know how to kill the stuff that wants to kill him?" Paranoia asked. "Besides, it looks like you come up with some twisted stuff. So do I. Who else am I gonna work with?"

"I like this one," Rage declared. "We're keeping him."

"Of _course,_ we're not," Deceit agreed. "After all, he has _everywhere_ else to go."

Paranoia looked over and met Deceit's eyes. They blazed with some intense meaning or another, but even Vergilius couldn't decipher _what_.

Paranoia tightened his grip on his machete. Remus summoned a massive tank filled with an octopus, and Paranoia watched carefully as it performed tricks, imagining the quickest way to chop it up into little pieces or drop it into quicksand in Thomas' stead.

* * *

Paranoia and Rage had been dueling for half an hour when Paranoia finally got a solid hit in, lobbing off Rage's head in one clean move. His head flew to the right and Remus caught it mid-leap, dunking it into a basketball hoop.

"Can you not play fucking basketball with my head?" Rage demanded. His body twitched on the ground in front of Paranoia.

Paranoia nudged his limp arm with the toe of his boot and Remus skipped over, dribbling his head while Rage cussed and groaned and whined. Remus reattached his head for him and promptly sat in the middle of his back.

Rage grunted. "I hate you both."

Paranoia stuffed one of Remus' socks in his mouth, and he gagged violently. "Hey, Rage," Paranoia mocked cruelly. "If you scream and no one hears, do you even make a sound?"

Rage clawed futilely at him, but Paranoia danced out of the way.

_A terrible sort of dread settled into Vergilius' stomach, and he remembered on, even though he didn't want to._

"Oh, yes," Deceit drawled, leaning over the railing on the stairs. "Because blood is the _best_ disinfectant. Can someone please get that out of the carpet? I'm _not_ tired of cleaning it up all the time."

Remus snapped it away and replaced it with green goo. Deceit glared at him frankly. Paranoia snapped, and the liquid disappeared entirely. Rage threw Remus off him and shoved to his feet, dusting off his pants.

"Best two out of three?" he asked Paranoia.

Remus twisted his body up like a contortionist with missing bones, peering between his thighs. "Spiky and I are gonna think up gross, bloody ways Thomas and his family can die horrible deaths!"

"And the best ways to kill the killers first," Paranoia confirmed, twirling his machete and putting it away.

Remus rolled out of his mangled position and took Paranoia's hand, racing him up the stairs. Paranoia caught Deceit's eyes on the way, and Deceit smiled at him approvingly, inclining his head in mysterious camaraderie.

* * *

Vergilius had totally forgotten that moment. He tried to remember a reason for it; had Deceit and Paranoia had some related conversation? Had they recently reached some sort of understanding? Had they done _anything_ at all to explain why Deceit would look at him like that?

Vergilius couldn't think of anything. Most of his memories consisted of marathoning gruesome deaths with Remus while Paranoia obsessed over how best to get Thomas out of those binds—like popping a kidnapper's eye, or eating a pedophile's dick—or sparring Rage, or pacing his room, watching every interaction Thomas had to any sign that a creepy adult might be lurking, or a black van might be following, or quicksand might be waiting for him on the sidewalk, or a crack that might break Grandma's back.

In none of those memories could Vergilius find _anything_ to explain Deceit's look. Why had he looked at Paranoia like that? Had Paranoia even _cared_? Vergilius couldn't really remember a reaction from him—just that he'd followed Remus to dream up whatever horror shows they could think of. He never said anything to Deceit. Vergilius didn't think he smiled back, or nodded, or winked, or _anything_.

Hadn't he cared that Deceit _clearly_ meant something by that expression? Didn't he care that Deceit knew something _he didn't_? Didn't he care about _anything_?

But that was just the thing, Vergilius had begun to realize—Paranoia _didn't_ care. About anything or anyone except himself.

* * *

Paranoia tensed when he heard the knock on his door. He picked up his machete and approached it warily. "What do you want?"

"To give you a present!" It was Remus.

Paranoia hesitated. Vergilius would have immediately relaxed, even knowing it might be something unpleasant, but Paranoia considered the door distrustfully. "Is it a bomb?"

There was a pause. "Do you want it to be?"

"Only if we use it on Rage or Deceit." Paranoia should have laughed—or at least smiled—but his face remained impassive. His lips didn't even twitch that Vergilius could tell.

Remus _did_ laugh. "Promise! Totally harmless present. Mostly. They will definitely kill you if they bite you, but they shouldn't bite you."

Paranoia narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Curiosity tinged his distrust, and he opened the door to reveal Remus with a terrarium filled with four differently patterned spiders. Remus beamed.

"Happy birthday!" He thrust the terrarium at him, and _Vergilius teared up in the present day just at the memory._ "Not actually your birthday—but we could _make you_ be born today." His eyes glinted. "I could totally conjure a vagina to squeeze you out of. Babies have weird things—umbilical cords! And it's totally _gross_. You want it to be your actual birthday today, Spiky? Eh? Eh?"

_Vergilius had somehow completely forgotten Remus had been the one to gift him his babies, but it made perfect sense, looking back. It took creativity to bring pets that beautiful and adorable to life—creativity Vergilius lacked, but his best friend harbored in excess. Grateful tears rolled down Vergilius' face._

Paranoia stared at the terrarium and took it away from Remus. If Paranoia had any heart whatsoever, he should have teared up like Vergilius. He should have blubbered all over Remus, babbling his gratitude and hugging him until he popped. He should have begged him to tell him something he could do in repayment. He should have told him how much this family meant to him.

He should have done something— _anything_ —to express his gratitude and love. Even the smallest of things to prove to Vergilius he'd had a heart as Paranoia.

But Paranoia did none of that. Paranoia didn't even say goodbye. The next thing Vergilius knew, Paranoia had closed the door and walked away to free his new pets to start weaving their webs around his room.

* * *

Paranoia didn't care. It felt obvious to Vergilius now, looking back—any of the dozen moments that should have warmed Paranoia's heart or demonstrated how much he loved his family elicited _nothing_. Not a smile, not a laugh. He barely interacted with them, aside from sparring matches with Rage and brainstorming fests with Remus.

Paranoia had used them— _all of them_. No wonder Deceit missed him so much. He'd been the only other Side as manipulative and cruel as he was.

Hoping to be proved wrong, Vergilius let himself wander back into Fear's most painful memory.

* * *

Thomas' family had brought him to his very first festival, with a throng of people dressed colorfully, and a lot of music and laughing and people much older than him. He'd only turned away for a second to gawk at a cool sculpture, but when he turned back around, Mommy had disappeared.

Fear woke from his monthlong coma and sent the Conscious Mind spiraling into anarchy.

Knowledge and Common Sense fainted. Imagination plopped down with purple eyes and recited all the ways this could go terribly, irrevocably wrong. Curiosity curled up on the ground and sucked his thumb. Wonder gawked at everything. Feelings wailed in distress. Empathy stared dumbly into nowhere, unresponsive.

And the final Side—one wearing a yellow shirt and black cape—ran around screaming at everyone to get a grip while Fear shrieked orders at Thomas, flying around and phasing through walls in bat form.

The yellow Side relentlessly pursued him, taping everyone's mouths shut with duct tape when they annoyed him, insisting that whatever happened, they'd be fine. He tried to grab Fear and shut him up when he told Thomas to make a fuss. Fear had some vague understanding that the yellow Side didn't trust what the adults would do to Thomas if they caught him, but Fear couldn't be sure, and he didn't care. Thomas had to find Mommy, no matter what it took.

Fear also feared the yellow Side with what tiny fragment of his mind wasn't consumed by Thomas' immediate predicament.

But then a police officer found Thomas and calmed him down, and Fear tired rapidly, drifting toward the ground—until the yellow Side grabbed him and, duct-taped him, still in bat form, to the floor. His wing bent crudely under the adhesive.

Fear wailed, but the yellow Side paid him no mind.

Fear struggled against his restraints, squeaking and squawking for help that wouldn't come, but they were too strong. His wing _hurt_ —this terrible pain, simultaneously searing and sharp—and it only got worse when he tried to move it. He heard one of the bones in his wing snap. He squawked louder, but no one came to his aid. He prayed to fall into another deep coma like he had every other time, but even just fear for himself was enough to keep Fear conscious.

Meanwhile, Thomas sniffled and agreed to follow the police officer to the nice, safe tent where Mommy would come for him. He accepted the policeman's hand and walked with him through the thick crowd, which parted far easier before his uniform.

And so, the Mindscape was left to grapple with the aftermath.

"That was the worst thing ever!" Feelings screamed.

Empathy still stared dumbly at the wall.

"What if Mommy finds a kid she really does love more and takes them and tells us she doesn't love us anymore and nobody else wants us either so we just start living on the streets and then we're hit by a car and die?" Imagination said in a rush. His eyes hadn't totally lost their purple twinge.

"I wouldn't let us get hit by a car," the yellow Side snapped. "I'm too smart for that."

"So are we!" Knowledge and Common Sense chorused.

"Sure," the yellow Side drawled, then unstuck the wriggling Fear from the floor and picked him up by the bent wing. Fear screeched in agony. "And you."

Fear shrieked more and struggled. He reverted human form and scrambled away from the yellow Side, sniveling, whimpering, and horrifically afraid of what he would do to him. His arm bent weirdly against his chest, and he couldn't manage the wherewithal to fix it, not whilst cowering beneath the ire of the yellow Side, who had always been cutthroat and relentless and cruel, who had always hated Fear the most, ever since the first time he overrode the others in a blind panic, who had threatened him and derided him and chased him and tried to kill him, who had granted him no quarter, no mercy, no trial or plea bargains in all the time they had known each other, from nigh Thomas' first cry. 

The yellow Side, who glared at Fear with murderous intent now.

"You knocked me out!" Knowledge and Common Sense accused in unison before they suddenly fused into one Side in a suit. No one blinked.

"This tent is kinda cool," Wonder muttered. "What does that talkie thing feel like?"

Fear could care less what all their reactions were, though, because he couldn't think of anything but what the yellow Side would do to him. "It was an accident!" Fear pleaded.

The yellow Side, however, didn't care. "Stop getting in the way!" he yelled at him. Fear could only recoil and whimper and shield his head. Ugly tears and snot still ran down his face. "You're gonna get us killed!"

But that was the exact opposite of what Fear did. "No!"

"You wouldn't let me think of anything fun!" Imagination cut in. "I couldn't even think of cool stories if everything went wrong! Just about everything going wrong!"

"Mommy," Feelings whimpered.

Fear thought he glimpsed Empathy twitch in the corner, but he never did anything, so he couldn't be sure and never would be.

"If you're gonna be here, you can't just be asleep unless you're causing trouble!" the yellow Side screamed. "You gotta work! Like the rest of us!"

"I can't help it!"

"Well, then learn how!"

The Side that had replaced Common Sense and Knowledge threw his hand high in the air and waved it around eagerly. "Ooh! Ooh! I can teach you! Lemme teach you!"

"How do you turn into a bat?" Wonder whispered. "That's so cool. I wanna turn into a bat."

The yellow Side groaned loudly and threw his head back, slumping. "Now we need to calm Thomas down so Mommy isn't mad at us when she gets here." He glared at Fear again. "Thanks for nothing." He kicked him. Fear yelped and scrambled away, and the yellow Side turned to face the others and start planning what they would do when Mommy found them again.

Fear drifted away, to the corners of the Conscious Mind, sniffling and shaking and wiping at his face to get rid of the tears. He could already feel himself tiring; he'd black out until the next crisis hit soon, and he'd be at the yellow Side's mercy. It scared him to think what he could do to him while he was asleep and unable to protest or run away.

He couldn't stay here and wait for the yellow Side to hurt him. Besides, no one else here cared about him or wanted him around. They all agreed: he got in the way, and they didn't like him. He knew he was helping Thomas with every wild panic, every takeover he flooded the Conscious Mind with. He was the only one who could protect him when things got really, really bad.

But they didn't see that, and they'd never see that, and Fear couldn't stay awake for long enough to convince them. He didn't really want to.

Fear dragged himself, eyes drooping, body aching, further and further away from the cluster of Sides deliberating on their next course of action. The bright white constancy of the Conscious Mind slowly turned into something unsteady, with walls that shifted like a magical labyrinth around him and a dim and shimmery atmosphere.

Fear found himself a small niche tucked under and between walls, and he rolled down into it just as Thomas reunited with his mother and they went home, the crisis officially averted. Fear curled up like a cat and closed his eyes.

He did not wake for several weeks. The next few crises ranked as very minor, but nonetheless important, and Fear piloted Thomas through all of them alone. By the time Thomas' mother unwittingly planted the seed in his mind that would grow into Paranoia, Fear had been alone almost a year. He would spend the next few months wailing and hurting and Changing, and then three years more completely alone. Deceit would find him when Thomas was eight.

Paranoia would spend the next four years caring about no one and nothing except himself, _feeling_ nothing except distrust and sick amusement at others' suffering, until he Changed for the final time into Vergilius. And everything— _everything_ —would fall apart.

* * *

Vergilius curled into a ball and sobbed as an icy, unwelcome understanding washed over him: the yellow Side had been Deceit. _Deceit_ had been the one to banish him to Limbo all those years ago.

Vergilius' savior had been the very reason he'd needed saving all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a crappy year for everyone. Still, if you guys can manage some comments, I'd appreciate them, and especially any theories you have about secrets various Sides might have, because there are a lot. Also, please do let me know if I hit you hard in the feels, because this is one of those chapters that's meant to bludgeon your feels black and blue. Sorry not sorry. :)
> 
> So you guys know, as far as the second part of this series is concerned, I am...trying, but it is not an easy monster to draft and things have not been kind to me or my creative process lately. I'll have a better idea after all these chapters are finished being uploaded, but it might be a while before you guys see _Trust Is Black and White_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergilius tries to talk some sense into Thomas. (Part 1/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm uploading this early because I have a thing tomorrow and I probably won't be able to upload it at a good time. I try to keep my chapters bite-sized chunks because I know it can be daunting if I'm busy with other things and one of my fics uploads this really long chapter. It's hard to unwind reading a fic if the chapters are incredibly long, and even easier to get lost, so for a couple of the episode conversions from the series--like this one, "Making Some Changes"--will be broken up into separate chapters. If it annoys you guys to have to wait for the next update when you've already seen the full episode, let me know and I'll throw the next one up as soon as I can.
> 
> Warnings: Some PTSD-like symptoms, panic

"You thought you were there to guide me. / You were only in my way." ~ "Just Like You" by _Three Days Grace_

* * *

* * *

THOMAS' LIFE WAS IN FLUX—a perpetual state of questioning, of doubting, of casting about in a sea of confusion for an anchor, even though that anchor was destined to drag you deeper down into the depths of unknowingness. Thomas toiled hopelessly, searching for a sign, any sign, that he was on the right track, that he wasn't leaving behind what few constants he had for opportunities that wouldn't come to fruition.

Every time those tumultuous feelings reared their ugly heads again, though, Thomas crammed them back down. He stuffed them into a box with a padlock. Then he stacked several dozen pounds of weight on top of it. Then he locked it behind a vault door.

But what Thomas didn't know was the expiration date on that padlock; the fragility of that weighted stack; the seal on the vault. That box wouldn't survive forever. It would burst open, and when it did, it would burst with a vengeance, and Thomas would vomit black guilt onto the floor of some unsuspecting, well-meaning, could-have-been-family's home. He'd be hated. Despised. Cast out. Ruined.

All because he didn't accept what he was feeling when he had the chance. All because he didn't take the opportunity while he had it to hunker down deeper into the familiar, not tiptoe through the great unknown for curiosity and righteous, fickle senses of right and wrong.

But Vergilius knew. Vergilius had felt it. Had experienced it firsthand. Had blazed the trail for Thomas to struggle with it; but despite all his experience, Vergilius still didn't have the answers. He didn't know the way out of this quagmire of doubt and fear.

But when a Side is needed, they do not simply take a sick day. Thomas needed him, so Vergilius was going to be everything he needed—and then some.

Maybe then—if _only_ then—they would accept him and rescue him from his self-imposed prison sentence.

"Wait," Vergilius interjected just before Thomas could dam his feelings up— _again_.

" _Dammit_ ," Thomas hissed, deflating.

Logan sighed, pinched his sinuses, and muttered, "Disappointment."

Roman flung an arm melodramatically into the air. "So close." He hung his head, then added with palpable vitriol, "What is it now, Sour Patch Turd?"

When Vergilius described "palpable vitriol," he meant that kind of tone that runs like liquid mercury down your back, inflaming the skin, pervading the body with toxic, viscous shame that rose like bile but spread like warm tea after a winter day. It was the kind of voice reserved for your worst enemies. Your most hated companions.

It was the only voice Roman addressed him with.

Vergilius held up his hands. "Just here to say: I'm on your side." He was too exhausted to try _scary_ anymore. As much as he wanted to collapse in a heap and beg someone else to take the anxiety, the fear, the paranoia, the doubt, the shame, the confusion—take all of it, let him rot—he couldn't.

Thomas needed him.

Unfortunately, foregoing fearsomeness had unforeseen side effects, like making Patton even more confused than he already was. "Wait, whose side? My side? What am I arguing? I don't want to argue!"

Vergilius closed his eyes and growled. "Just—" He weighed the pros and cons, and the cons to defanging himself from tiredness outweighed the pros, so he pivoted. "—let me do the talking."

It came out sharper than he would have liked. Patton's expression may as well have been an arrow fired into his chest. What was worse, Patton didn't even have the grace to look hurt; just worried, studying Vergilius with the gaze of someone who already knew how close their friend was to a mental breakdown, pleading without words for them to reach out before they capsized.

But Vergilius wasn't the one who needed help. Thomas was.

And speaking of Thomas: "There's no 'side' here, Anxiety—"

"Except us," Roman supplied helpfully, not that it much helped when Thomas let out a strangled scream of frustration.

"Whatever." Thomas shook his head, then took a deep breath. Vergilius felt his anxiety swell from mistreating one of his Sides, which was ironic and self-destructive to say the least, when they were all external, imagined projections of parts of himself he could talk to instead of a therapist, like he probably should have been seeing. "We're not having an argument. We all agreed."

 _Before you got here_ hung heavy and unsaid in the air between them.

Neither Vergilius nor Thomas could afford to waste precious time on this silly exchange. "Thomas, all these new settings, all these changes—you can always tell, can't you? Something is _off_."

Logan frowned at him. "What is?"

Vergilius gritted his teeth. "Something."

"You can't even give an example?"

Vergilius could, but it wouldn't be applicable to the conversation they were having. Or maybe it would be. He didn't know anymore, and he couldn't waste the time or energy trying to argue it with them.

Thomas needed him.

" _Something_ ," he stressed. "Something is just… _off_."

Thomas threw up his hands. "I hate it when you're just vague!"

"Oh, no!" Patton danced back and forth on his feet, chewing his fingernails. "Anxiety, what do we do?"

"Uh…no." Logan laughed nervously.

His anxiety hit Vergilius like a shot of espresso. Vergilius breathed it in deeply, an overdue rush of victory swelling inside him. He'd learned the hard way not to get cocky, though, even when an argument seemed primed for his triumph. Still, Vergilius dared hope he could get it through their thick skulls that all he wanted to do was _help them_. Help Thomas. He wasn't their enemy.

Not that he imagined Roman would ever accept that truth.

"You were listening to me before," Logan said quickly. "Remember how smart I was? You want to listen to me, don't you?"

"We have a bubble," Vergilius said, forging ahead with newfound confidence. "It's nice here in the bubble. Everything you need to get done, you can get done in _your. Familiar. Bubble._ "

He could see—and feel—it starting to get through to Thomas. He wasn't so confident now. It wasn't just anxiety; it was doubt. It was knowing, deep down, even beyond the haze of confusing emotions, that something _wasn't right,_ and Thomas only fed it the more he ignored it.

But Roman couldn't see—or didn't want to see—it for himself. "That is not how dream-chasing works!" he exploded. " _Ugh_ , I do not like you."

Thomas wasn't done fighting it just yet, either. "I don't get you! Last time, you were on me about whether _here_ was where I needed to be. Now you're telling me to stagnate?"

Vergilius couldn't blame him for resisting, even as he had to take a deep breath. After all, how long had Vergilius denied the undeniable? "Yes, but lately—"

"Are you just trying to counter everything I do?"

Vergilius crushed his eyes shut. "No. It's just—"

"Then _what_?"

"Your friends!" _Your family_ , a quiet, inapplicable voice in Vergilius' mind suggested. _The family you haven't truly trusted since you Changed. The family you fear. The reason you come here to hide more than you come here to spy._

A heavy silence fell over the room—or mental projection of a room, at least. No one said anything. Even Roman studied Vergilius carefully, with something different glinting in his eyes. It wasn't abject disapproval or disgust. It was…

Vergilius didn't know, especially when Patton was watching him like that, vicarious sadness blazing in his literal heart eyes. Vergilius felt the treacherous urge to sink into his embrace, but that—no. He had to focus.

Thomas needed him.

"You…care about my friends?"

Vergilius breathed deeply—but subtly. He couldn't show weakness. "Look, let's not—let's not make this any angstier than it has to be—"

"This coming from _you_?" Roman challenged, finally recovered enough from his shock.

Vergilius ignored him. "—but we all know I can be a bit—"

"Dismal," Roman sniped.

"Monochromatic," Logan suggested, adjusting his glasses.

"Spicy!" Patton did jazz hands.

" _Whatever_ ," Vergilius ground out. "But your friends—your friends are—they help me out. They provide… _constancy_."

There was another contemplative silence while that sunk in. Anxiety, their perpetual, fateful antagonist, offering up his insecurities? His sources of comfort? For the scrutiny of them all?

So much for not showing weakness.

"Okay," Thomas decided finally, resignation settling over him like a lead weight. "Okay, yeah. You and Morality have a point."

"What?" Roman squeaks. Vergilius entertains the thought that, if he'd been his more interesting twin, his head might have burst to emphasize his alarm.

"Oh, no," Logan said, then looked at Roman. "Temporary alliance?"

"Sure," he said. "Nerd."

"Terrific! Halfwit." Logan continued before Vergilius could process what had just happened. "Thomas, friends are a positive and I can appreciate having them in your life, even though they encourage nonsensical and unsafe behavior. They also can help your overall mental health and well-being."

"But they're not going anywhere!" Roman threw his arms wide with an encouraging smile for Thomas and a cautioning glare for Logan.

"You don't know that," Vergilius countered.

"Yes! Yes, I do!" Roman focused on Thomas. "They're not waiting on you to pursue their dreams, so you mustn't wait on them." Frustration laced his tone, teeth grinding.

Vergilius knew that expression well, just as he knew the feeling: frustration, hopelessness because, despite his best efforts, no one would listen to him. _Imagine that_ , he thought with a sadistic surge of satisfaction. _Not having your contributions appreciated. How unfathomable._

"They could be gone at any moment," Vergilius told Thomas, suppressing a cruel smirk. "Maybe all this traveling is giving them the impression you don't need them anymore."

"No!" Thomas' eyes widened. "No, that's not true. I _do_ need them." Thomas tried to break away from the fantasy to call Joan, but Logan jumped in before he could.

"Oh no," Logan said. "We're losing them." He whirled on Roman. "You're the creative one! Think of something!"

This time, Vergilius did feel the subtlest underpinning of guilt beside his triumph. Logan had validated him last time, even thanked him for his contributions. He didn't blindly resent him the way Roman did. If Vergilius played his cards right, Patton's sympathy and Logan's respect could earn him a place in the Conscious Mind.

But he already had that, didn't he?

And that was the whole problem.

Roman and Logan were still panicking, now with Roman flailing emphatically as he cast about in a sea of doubt and turmoil for an idea. "What if…what if, uh…what if…?"

Vergilius realized all too suddenly and almost too late that every player in this discussion felt anxious: Logan and Roman for fear of losing the debate and Patton for fear that he had unwittingly abandoned Thomas' friends and now they'd never be happy.

Thomas started to hyperventilate.

It dawned on Vergilius that, perhaps, he had drawn too many parallels between his dilemma and his center's and had only making things worse for everyone involved. His earlier triumph died a sudden, brutal death and he wrenched the reins back with all his might. Even so, he could feel whispers of the others in his ear. But anxiety was like that, unfortunately. Its roots ran so deep, even when you ripped its stem from the earth, you'd never be fully rid of it.

Vergilius shook the bleak thought off and focused on Thomas again, because he needed him.

Vergilius' small mercy opened the floodgates of Roman's creativity wide and he snapped his fingers victoriously. "What if his friends never leave? Eh? Eh?"

Vergilius almost shot into an inexhaustible list of all the ways that was a miserably unattainable fantasy, but Logan beat him to it with a deadpan, "Unrealistic."

Roman floundered for a moment. "What if his friends took his _sides_?" He gestured emphatically around the room, waggling his eyebrows at Logan.

Vergilius scowled at him in confusion.

Logan cut to the quick. "Why did I think it was a good idea to work with you?" He flicked his hand at Roman dismissively.

Vergilius wondered if Roman might attack Logan and strangle him to death. He prepared to fight, fly, or defend Thomas to his last—until Roman snapped his fingers and Thomas perked up.

"Can't you guys shapeshift?" he asked. "I mean…you're not exactly _real_ -real."

A two-ton weight of dread sunk hard in Vergilius' stomach, but it was already too late.

"We're not real at all, Thomas," Logan told him. "We are all—"

"Let's not go there, Weird Science," Roman interrupted. Vergilius spared a moment's appreciation for the classic movie reference. "Point is, what's the point of being mental projections of your own personality if _we_ can't just assume the forms of your friends? That way, you don't have to listen to Rain on Everybody's Parade over here."

There were two parts of that statement Vergilius wanted to address, and he chose the wrong one to start with. " _Seriously_ ," he stressed. "How many of those do you _have_?"

"Perfect!" Thomas exploded, spreading his arms. "You guys can just look like my friends, so I'll have them with me wherever I go!"

Vergilius sputtered, watching his opportunity run like sand through his fingers. "That's not—"

"Ooh!" Patton jumped up and down. "That sounds like gun, Thomas." Everyone froze and stared at him. "What?"

"Well, _that_ one's not making it into the final script," Roman muttered. "I agree with what Padre meant to say, Thomas. This is a perfect opportunity for us _all_ to demonstrate our phenomenal acting chops and dazzle you—I mean, each other with them." He struck what Vergilius suspected was his copyrighted pose, arms held perpendicular to each other on his right side, cupping his hands in that weird shorthand for regality.

Vergilius could have screamed, but it had already derailed past any hope of recovery.

"You are the only one among us possessing serviceable amounts of Thomas' acting talents to accompli—" Logan began.

"We can even make it a competition!" Roman continued loudly. "I'll, of course, be judge, being the expert—"

"But you're participat—"

Roman—surprise, surprise—didn't let Vergilius finish. "—and—"

"We don't need a competition, Roman," Thomas threw in hastily, then added, "but this is a really good idea." He brightened.

"Is it, though?" Vergilius asked him to, of course, no avail. "Is it really?"

"If this will help soothe your—" Logan faltered with a glance toward Vergilius. "— _unease_ , then I am ha— _willing_ to contribute." He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, ignoring Vergilius' pointed look. "Which friend shall I be?"

"Hmm…" Thomas tapped his chin thoughtfully.

Vergilius accepted this nonsense as inevitable. This would peter out soon enough; Thomas would realize he was slapping band-aids on real problems and address them before they addressed _him_. And even if he didn't, it wasn't like the others would forcibly change— _Change, fangs to rounded canines, black veins to charcoal dust, eerie white to pasty pale, leather to cotton, frightening to frightened_ —him, right?

"I know!" Thomas exclaimed, and Vergilius tensed. "You're inquisitive, rational, and clever. Joan!"

Logan morphed with a snap of the fingers into a short, dark-haired enby with stubble growing over their chin. Logan still wore his usual outfit. He rubbed his fingers along his jawline. "My face is immediately scratchier," he assessed.

"Oh my goodness!" Patton cried. "That's so cute! Do me next, Thomas! Me next! Me next!"

"What?" Vergilius demanded. "Patton, you're—"

"Well, you're a goofball with a heart of gold, so…Terrance!"

Patton assumed form seamlessly, squealing. " _Terr_ -ific!"

"Different face," Logan commented dryly, "same terrible humor."

While Patton rekindled his lifelong mission to drive Logan insane with puns, Thomas turned to Roman, who declared, "Way ahead of you, Thomas!"

He spun around with long, dark hair and a warm complexion, and Thomas beamed. "Valerie!"

"A valorous choice," Logan said, and Patton whirled on him, pointing excitedly. Logan fell back a step. "Not a pun! Never a pun!"

"Why Valerie?" Thomas asked Roman.

"Well, she's a dreamer, a fellow lover of _Disney_ —but mostly, I just finally get to sing some _Disney_ princess songs." Roman struck a pose and sang the first notes of "I Wonder" from _Sleeping Beauty._

"Somebody stop her!" Vergilius cried, clapping his hands over his ears.

"Excuse you!" Roman cried, holding a disapproving finger at him. "I am still a man. A manly man. The manliest."

Vergilius almost questioned what standards of masculinity they were using—because most excluded Roman as "manly" and certainly "the manliest"—but then Logan said, "We are all still aspects of a male-identifying individual's personality, so he/him pronouns all around."

Vergilius choked on white-hot shame and embarrassment for misusing someone's pronouns—even if that someone _was_ Roman. He amended himself without betraying it on his face.

"Now for you, Anxiety," Thomas said, eyes sparkling, a knuckle to his chin.

Vergilius' insides launched forward just to grind to a halt, freeze, superheat, and threaten to projectile vomit onto the floor again. "No," he said firmly—desperately. "Don't even _think_ about it. I am not playing this game."

"C'mon, Anxiety!" Patton bounced. "It'll be fun! What if we match?" Patton faltered. "Can we match? We probably can't, huh? Ah. Well, we can snatch another crime."

Vergilius growled. The walls closed in. His pulse raced. He struggled to breathe. _Thomas, please,_ he pleaded with his eyes and mind. _Don't do this to me._ "Thomas, this isn't—"

"TALYN!"


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas sees sense. (2/2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the artist is the most critical of their own work, but this isn't my favorite update. I'm sorry about that. I tried for something more emotional and I think I missed it. I just did yet another round of pretty intense edits before uploading this, so hopefully it's better.
> 
> Warnings: Symptoms of PTSD, mentions of body horror, brutal, violent fantasies described semi-graphically; it's a bit of a darker one

"I took too many hits off this memory. / I need to come down." ~ "Hold Me Tight or Don't" by _Fall Out Boy_

* * *

* * *

THE FIRST TIME VERGILIUS HAD CHANGED, he had been alone.

And not just tucked away in the privacy of his own room; no, he had been _alone_. Painfully, completely, agonizingly alone within the endless tumultuousness of Limbo. He had no room, no sanctuary, no supports. Only himself, his thoughts, and the slowly dawning horror of his body and mind Changing without his consent.

Back then, he had been Fear: the part of him most concerned with _immediacy_ , with reacting to present dangers rather than predicting and avoiding them. Without the dread of what _could be_ to distract him, he'd drowned in confusion and terror.

Fear had no one—not Unknown, not Known; not friend nor foe. He'd been rejected before they knew what rejections were, and he'd been forgotten long before Deceit had carved away his ironic sanctuary for rejects. Fear's Change had been unprecedented—an involuntary trailblazer. He'd lived in terror of everything until he became the thing he feared most.

The second time Vergilius had Changed, he hadn't suspected anything until it was already complete. He couldn't recall a single time Paranoia stopped to contemplate the differences in his outlook, or his behavior, or his anything; he'd just soldiered on ignorantly until the process completed itself, and no one commented on it.

It had been a gradual process for Fear, though. Vergilius remembered every moment of it in excruciating detail. It haunted him. He still plagued Thomas with nightmares of watching his body mutate in front of his very eyes with no power to stop or affect it. He didn't mean to, but when the memories reclaimed his mind…they reclaimed Thomas', too, even if he didn't understand why.

Fear used to pray for the Change to end quick. Anxiety would have liked a little forewarning before getting dropped, cold, from terrifying to terrified. Paranoia hadn't cared either way, about anything.

Vergilius didn't know for sure if any other Side had Changed. He knew Sides used to fuse all the time when they were children, and he knew Sides Faded, but he couldn't be sure if Feelings had _Changed_ into Morality or if he had just bonded with various other Sides to create Patton. Vergilius suspected the latter. Knowledge stood a reasonable chance of Changing into Logic, but Vergilius could remember a few Sides he also could have joined with. And Creativity had always been Creativity, even when they called him Imagination. The only time he'd changed—lowercase c—at all had been when…

Then again, maybe he had. Maybe he knew the trauma and the terror. Maybe they all did. Vergilius hoped to God they didn't, though, because if they did, there could be no forgiveness for...for...

For _this._

" _NO!_ "

Vergilius had lost several inches of height. Colored bangs hung in front of his face. His hoodie curtained over his body. He groped his face, meeting rounder, softer features and pierced earlobes. He had no way of knowing if he still had his eyeshadow or his pale complexion.

At least he was still terrified. If only he could be terrifying.

" _No_." Vergilius strangled tears at the back of his throat. He stared at Thomas, at his bemused smile, the way his lips framed his laugh, and Vergilius' soul ached with the familiar burn of betrayal. "Why?"

"Oh, I don't know," Thomas said dismissively, heedless to Vergilius' distress. "Just…similar style."

"I…think we can all agree that you are objectively adorable," Logan assessed. Vergilius whirled on him, eyes flashing, but Logan didn't seem to notice.

"Despite my best efforts to remember we are sworn enemies forced into reluctant alliance for Thomas' sake," Roman began melodramatically, "you are… _just too cute_!"

Vergilius couldn't breathe enough for comebacks or curses or betrayed demands. He hissed.

"Aw, he's like a little kitten!"

Vergilius crushed his eyes shut and resisted the urge to curl up on the ground, whimpering and sobbing and shaking, with everything he had. He burrowed into his hoodie to hide the tear streaks.

He could hear the others bantering through the roar in his ears. Someone sounded concerned—no, distressed—no, guilty. Vergilius didn't know. He couldn't breathe.

Vergilius sank underwater, and their voices grew more and more distant. He couldn't hear them over the roar of the ocean, over his struggle to gasp in precious oxygen. He gripped his collar and tried to yank it farther from his throat. It didn't help.

How could they do this? How could _Thomas_ do this? He'd only wanted to help him. That's all Vergilius had tried to do— _help him_.

Wait. Help him. Help Thomas. Yes. Yes, Vergilius had to…had to help Thomas. But he couldn't do that like this, panicky and overwhelmed with the entire world a cruel assault on his senses. He had to calm down. Calm…calm…

He needed to Change back.

"I am…" It hurt to speak. His lungs burned from too little air. His mouth had dried from too many open-mouthed gasps. His throat burned like he'd been in the desert for a month. "I am…not…okay…with _this_." Just that much deserved a medal.

And yet, it had all been for naught.

"Oh, deal with it, JD-lightful." Through bleary vision, he saw Roman smirking at him—as if they were playing a game; as if Vergilius had _agreed_ to having his entire reality uprooted for their entertainment.

Stone-cold terror superheated to red-hot anger, and Vergilius rose to his full—if measly—height, glaring around the room. " _What_ did you just call me?" he spit.

"You know," Roman said. "JD? From _Heathers_? 'Freeze Your Brain'? Thomas performed the role!" Vergilius just continued to glare at him and Roman stomped his foot in frustration. " _Ugh_ , I waste my best material on you."

"So…?" Logan interjected, addressing Thomas. "Is this satisfactory? Can we now close the book on your back-to-back dilemmas?"

"I think this could work," Patton said optimistically, taking his new form in and swinging stiff legs into the air like a little kid with his arms spread. "It might take a little getting used to, but I think you both deserve a _Patton_ the back for this one."

Vergilius saw the broken track up ahead and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. His teeth ground together and his fists clenched, because he knew they'd lose even more valuable time because:

"Did you...?" Logan sputtered for a few moments, and every ineffectual sound he made angered Vergilius just a little more, because _get to the fucking point, you stupid goddamn nerd._ "Did you just...did you just make a referential pun?"

Vergilius opened his eyes, knowing nothing better to do but watch the train go off the tracks and crash and burn while the Knowns once again fumbled Thomas' life and he had to sit back and watch and wonder why the hell their pride mattered more to them than basic fucking survival. His vision slowly stained orange, and despite himself, he relished in the fiery tint.

And then Patton said, "Yeah. I've been waiting to do it ever since I told Thomas my name. There was just never a great chance before, though, so it was—" Patton leaned forward conspiratorially and Logan looked confused for a second before his eyes widened in dread and horror. "— _Patton-pending._ "

Logan strangled a scream. "Okay! Time out. You don't see anyone else making puns about their names."

Patton sighed. "Aw, I guess you're right. Well...high five."

"What?"

"Down low—gan."

"Low-gan? Lo...gan. Sweet, merciful Newton, someone make it stop."

" _Hilarious_ ," Vergilius cut in when Thomas tried to distract himself fanning the flames between his heart and mind, "but we have more important things to worry about. Thomas, Logan asked you a question. You got an answer?"

Logan looked at Vergilius, as if in surprise. Roman scowled, and Patton looked sheepish. Thomas tried his best to appear defiant, but that wilted rapidly under the torrent of doubt Vergilius could _feel_ buffeting around and inside him. Thomas averted his eyes, slumping. "Well..."

 _"Well_?" Vergilius prompted insistently.

"Whatever could be the matter?" Roman exclaimed. "This is a perfect solution!"

"I know!" Thomas cried. "It should be. It just... _isn't_ , somehow. Something still doesn't feel right."

"Yeah, exactly," Vergilius said. "Because this—"

"Ah," Logan interrupted, genuinely behaving as if he hadn't heard Vergilius. It made complete sense for him not to have. Vergilius spoke quietly, barely moving his lips, with his face averted, and he had his voice further muffled by his hoodie. He'd been addressing Thomas only and hadn't tried to project his voice to be heard by the others because they didn't matter as much of their center. Vergilius still fantasized bringing his machete down on the bridge of Logan's glasses. "Then perhaps we are not in the right alignment."

Thomas frowned. "What does that mean?"

"Perhaps this combination of friends is not…" Vergilius glared while Logan rifled through his index cards—at least, until a strange feeling swelled in his gut. Had he forgotten something? He felt like he'd forgotten something important. Emotional? No, that couldn't be right. What important thing could he have forgotten that was emotional except _Thomas'_ emotions, which he still had a ready grasp on?

Then Logan continued, " _Liiit."_ He held up an index card to a roomful of dubiety. "Is that the correct usage?"

Vergilius growled under his breath. "You _have to be_ joking."

"You know I'm not." Logan frowned confusedly at Vergilius, then addressed Thomas again. "Allow me to demonstrate." With a flick of his wrist, Logan assumed Talyn's form.

That, in itself, would have been fine—annoying, but, inevitably, fine. Vergilius could have accepted it with a growl, a quip, and thinning patience. But Logan had to trample over basic etiquette and switch with him in the process.

For a moment, Vergilius couldn't think past blind, directionless terror—until it sharpened into directed _anger_. "Stop _doing this_."

What would happen if Vergilius ripped his glasses off Logan's face, shoved a leg of the frame through each eye? Would they squelch like wet, moldy laundry or pop like ripe grapes?

"Ooh! I _love_ Joan with eyeshadow." Patton's compliment—if it even counted as such, when Vergilius had been forced to wear another's face—edged with something besides the overwhelming sincerity dripping from every word out of his mouth. Could it be…concern?

But then why would he be _bouncing like that_? He looked like a stupid little kid hyped on too much Halloween candy. _Stop bouncing!_ Vergilius wanted to scream. He glared at him. _You're just pissing me off!_

Patton wilted under Vergilius' gaze, only to shoot up a second later, shifting into Valerie's form and pointing excitedly at his face. "Hey! Hey, Roman, look at me! Look at me, Roman!"

"Wh—no!" Roman flung his arms around wildly. "Now one of us has to change."

"Wow, I'm seeing _double_ here." Patton moved his glasses forward and back on his nose.

Thankfully, all this lunacy seemed to prove _something_ to Thomas, because he looked even more doubtful than he had before. "I don't know, guys," he said. "I don't think you switching around is helping."

"Of course not, Thomas," Vergilius said. To even his _own_ surprise, his tone came out far softer, lighter on the anger and anxiety. After all, he'd come here meaning to help Thomas as gently as he could. He'd only forgotten that methodology in favor of what he _hoped_ would be more efficient, but evidently not.

Because contrary to what Thomas or the others might believe, he took no satisfaction in scaring his center. Scaring Thomas meant betraying his very reason for existence: his drive to _protect._

Vergilius didn't expect them to understand that, though.

"Because we're not your friends." Vergilius searched Thomas' eyes, hoping to breathe on the embers of doubt inside him until they raged in an inferno he couldn't just ignore. "Am I _anything_ like Joan? Really? This isn't helping _anything."_

 _Not like I'm trying to do_ , Vergilius thought, only semi-desperately.

"I…"

Patton suddenly crossed the divide and hugged Thomas tightly. Vergilius saw why a second later; Thomas' emotions had flown completely into flux thanks to him. Vergilius tried to feel guilty, he did, but he couldn't seem to remember how; all he remembered how to do was strangle a scream of frustration. "It doesn't _feel right_ because we're not your friends!"

"But we look just like them," Logan protested, gesturing around the room. "Would it help if we attempted to behave like them?" Vergilius stared disbelievingly while Logan tried and failed to emulate Talyn, saying, "Uh...my name is Talyn. I am short and non-threatening." And then, "Uh...cats. Vetal—I mean, Viking metal. Vomit."

Vergilius couldn't believe this insanity. How could Logan not _grasp_ this? He was _Logic_. Reason, rationality—all things that flew in the face of this nonsense.

"There's no use, Thomas," Vergilius insisted. "Nothing beats the real thing."

"Well, then, what am I supposed to do?" Thomas demanded, tears shining bright in his eyes. Vergilius stopped. "I know you just want me to stay at home and not do anything, but change is inevitable—and I _know_ change is a part of life and my friends have their own lives, but they've always been there for me, and—"

"I WILL FIND MY WAY! I CAN GO THE DISTANCE!"

It took every scrap of Vergilius' self-control not to summon his machete and bring it crashing through Roman's thick, _stupid_ skull—especially when Thomas had been _so close_. Vergilius strangled a scream of frustration when Logan just made it worse starting a vilification tennis match in Spanish and Patton tried to interject to avoid feeling left out.

Vergilius didn't get it. Logan should have been the _first_ Side on his team; he should have recognized how insane all of this was and put a stop to it while they figured out the real problems and _solved them_ instead of dancing around the issue for another hour. He was _supposed_ to be the only other one _here_ with _sense._

Except that was just it, wasn't it?

Vergilius' frustration and ire faded to a dull roar. Logan hadn't participated in this with intents to betray, hurt, get even with, or prove a point to Vergilius. He didn't understand how his actions could hurt him because he didn't understand _hurt._

Logan had emotions, sure—plenty of them. Too many, even. But that didn't mean he _understood_ them. He knew everything in the book up to and including how quantum quarks worked, but emotions boggled his mind. He had no idea he'd even upset Virgil, just like he hadn't understood when he'd upset Patton last time.

In a sea of emotions, Logan was the only one without a map, compass, or even boat. He couldn't _reason_ through this. He couldn't navigate his way out of pure emotion—especially fraught ones like this. Against Patton's overwhelming current, he didn't stand a chance.

But Vergilius _did_ , didn't he? After all, what was Anxiety if not the miserable lovechild of Logic and Emotion? Something thoughtful enough to reason the worst-case scenarios into light, but too irrational to let them go?

"C'mon, Thomas!" Roman exploded. "Life is an adventure! Embrace the change."

"I'm trying to!" Thomas cried. "But I don't know if I can!"

But if that was so…then maybe Vergilius could work in reverse. Maybe he could navigate the emotional storm; the only sailor there with all the essentials. All he had to do was the impossible: _stay rational_.

For Thomas.

"Not without your friends, Thomas," Vergilius tried to insist. "You— _son of a bitch_!"

Vergilius shot up several inches and his clothes fit lankier on his body, and his face changed and his build and for a moment, he washed away with the current of terror and helplessness.

At least, until Roman opened his mouth—now Joan in colorful, oversized princely garb—and the world sharpened once again with an orange film. "You were too powerful as Joan!" he cried, striking a pose. "Someone had to stop you!"

Vergilius wondered what would happen if he cleaved Roman in half a second time. Could he distill the stupid part into something easily cut down? Would he just reform as the same Side? Vergilius was willing to sacrifice him—for science, of course.

He glared at Roman for a moment more, then forced himself to plan. He might be the only Side with a boat, map and compass, but he was _also_ the Side no one would listen to in a million years. Obviously, anything he said wouldn't make the least bit of difference. He had to let the others come to their own conclusions.

His eyes drifted back toward Logan—the one who had always, consistently, _historically,_ taken credit for every helpful suggestion of Vergilius'. He'd always been grateful to him for protecting Thomas when he couldn't.

Thomas had all the puzzle pieces. He had everything he needed to reach the right conclusion. The only thing holding him back was _Vergilius—_ because he refused to listen to him, and every time Vergilius encouraged him toward what he already knew, Thomas forced it farther back in his mind.

But if those same words came from Logan…

"Fine," Vergilius snarled, shoving his shoulders back and glaring at Thomas. He emulated Roman's bombastic preening, like some attention-starved boy peacock—albeit with his darker edge, of course. "Don't listen to me. Be an idiot. See if I care."

Everyone stopped and stared at him in disbelief.

"What?" he demanded. Self-consciousness and fear tangled up in the confusing web of emotions in his chest, but he blocked them out. He still had to help Thomas.

"Don't you _always_ care?" Roman asked cautiously.

"It does rather seem your crusade to force Thomas to listen to you, no matter how senseless your contributions, each of these little…" Logan gestured as if at something distasteful. "… _debates_ we have."

Vergilius clenched his fist at his side. "Well, you thought wrong." He met Thomas' eyes. "I have a job to do, and I come here to do it, but I'd rather do _less_ work, so if you never listen to me again, it's whatever."

Thomas and Patton frowned at him. "Kiddo," Patton asked gently, "are you feeling all right? Is it the shapeshifting? I'm really worry if it made your sonny upset."

Vergilius might have laughed at his jumbled words any other day. "Like I said, Pat. Doesn't matter to me either way."

"Then why not just leave?" Roman snapped.

Vergilius smirked at him. "Because it's fun to watch the train go off the tracks."

"Why are you like this?" That came from Thomas, and it slapped Vergilius like a bag of bricks across the face, but he hid it as best he could.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the light dawn on Logan's face. He smirked internally. _Just on time, as always, Specs_ , he thought, and relaxed while he waited for Logan to take home the trophy today and leave Vergilius in the thankless dust yet again.

But then Logan said the unthinkable: "He's right."

Vergilius whirled on him, alarmed and shocked and aghast until all the passion went out of him and he could only stare disbelievingly at the spectacled Side taking in the assortment of dumbfounded expressions leveled him. Vergilius couldn't have heard that right. Right?

Out of the corner of his eye, Vergilius watched everyone else face Logan. Patton glowed with pride. Roman fumed orange from anger. Thomas gaped like Logan had grown a second head right in front of him and started preaching the Rastafarian bible.

"What are you doing?" Roman demanded. "We're a team, remember?"

"And it appears—" Logan's voice caught. "It appears we were mistaken, just this once." He met Roman's eyes. "Anxiety was right from the beginning. Thomas cannot replace his friends simply because he misses them." He locked eyes with Thomas. "We are all fragments of your personality. Each of us might show _more_ in common with some of your friends than others, but they are all fully realized human beings. They cannot fit neatly into any one of us."

Vergilius had expected that—those exact words, in that exact order, with that exact conclusion. They'd been his from the start. He just hadn't expected Logan to give him credit for them.

"So…" Patton tugged on his cardigan sleeves in a move reminiscent of Vergilius. "We _should_ just stay home to be close to them all the time?"

"No," Logan said, and firmly, locking eyes with Vergilius. "There are two kinds of change. Administrable change and inadministrable change."

Vergilius frowned, studying him carefully. "Is that a word?"

"I don't think so," Thomas agreed.

"Unadministrable change."

"Uh…"

Logan's eyes almost bulged out of his head. Vergilius watched his Adam's apple spasm through an internal scream. " _Regardless_ ," he hissed, "there is change you can control and change you cannot control. The new and expanding demands of your career are changes outside your control, but the efforts you take to—" Vergilius glimpsed the tremor in his hands as he continued. "The efforts you take to stay close to your friends _are_ within your control."

Thomas hesitated, considering this. "Yeah," he said quietly, nodding. "Yeah. I mean, there's the internet for a reason, right?"

"Expanding your well of knowled—"

"Staying in contact with my friends!"

Logan sighed heavily.

"I can always call and text them, and video calls and—thanks, Logan."

"You are welcome, Thomas," Logan said.

Dully, Vergilius wondered if that advice had any bearing on his situation. He couldn't control the fact he'd Changed or the fact Deceit manipulated him so much, he didn't remember what reality felt like anymore. He couldn't control when Rage went on murderous rampages, or when Remus spiraled through a dozen terrifying, grotesque ideas that tormented Vergilius and forced him to then torment Thomas in turn. He couldn't control that the Subconscious felt like a prison. He couldn't control that he'd become the prey in a house-full of predators.

But what _could_ he control? Could he control if Thomas accepted him?

He looked at his center. Clearly not. Thomas still favored him with uncomfortable glances, or wrinkled his nose, or generally reacted to him as though he were particularly distasteful or unwanted _thing_. He'd done _everything_ he could think of to change that, to bring Thomas around, to show him he just wanted to help him, but nothing had worked.

Deceit's advice, Patton—it all brought him back to the same place. Unloved, unwanted— _rejected_. He'd won over Logan and Patton, by all appearances. He won over the fans way back when he _started_ this. He'd affected everything he could to show Thomas he could trust him, and still, he refused to accept him.

So, then what? If Vergilius convinced Roman to accept him as well, would _that_ change Thomas' mind?

It at least stood a decent chance, but he also knew that was a losing battle. Roman would never— _could_ never—accept him. He existed in direct opposition to him. They'd been wired mortal enemies, and Vergilius couldn't change that. He didn't much want to, either; he at least didn't care to waste the energy it would take to confirm his undoubting suspicions.

And what did that leave? What change could he still control? What could he do to improve his situation? To _feel_ better?

 _Nothing_ , he realized despairingly. Not a damn thing. He was trapped.

But Logan apparently hadn't finished throwing curve-balls. "But I am not the Side most deserving of your gratitude today."

Roman roared. " _What_ do you think you're doing?"

" _Awww_ ," Patton gushed, slapping his hands over his cheeks.

"Uh…" Vergilius droned, looking around anxiously.

"I failed to recognize what you needed on my own," Logan told Thomas. "It was only through Anxiety's intervention—and his gracious forfeit—that I realized what needed to be done."

" _Gracious forfeit_?" Roman echoed, red-faced and strained. "He just gave up! He said he wanted to watch us fall apart!"

Logan locked eyes with Roman and didn't give ground. "Anxiety's purpose is not to _stand down_ , least of all on matters that greatly distress Thomas. He had just as much—if not _more_ —stakes in this debate as any of us. Which, if you'll care to recall, was something he admitted at the beginning."

Vergilius opened his mouth to protest, but Logan just looked at him.

"I am many things, Anxiety," he said measurably, "but never take me for a fool. You forfeited because you knew I would be forced to step forward in your stead, and you knew Thomas always listens to me, as he has done throughout his development. You gave up being right in favor of best serving Thomas."

Vergilius' eyes watered and he stared at Logan—helplessly? Hopelessly? _Hopefully_? He didn't know anymore. He didn't think it much mattered, either.

Logan addressed Thomas one last time. "So, no, Thomas. I am not the Side you should be thanking. That honor goes to Anxiety today, and Anxiety alone."

Thomas turned and stared at Vergilius, and Vergilius stared back. Roman stood off to the side—no longer quite _irate_ , but still red-faced and aghast at the turn of events. Patton stood across the way, glowing. Logan waited impassively to Vergilius' right, arms crossed, expression neutral.

Soon enough, it became unbearably clear Thomas wasn't going to say anything.

Vergilius tightened his hoodie around his head and took a deep breath. "Can we switch back already, please?" he asked quietly.

"Oh. Uh…right."

And then, _mercifully_ , it was over—Vergilius stood at the right height, with the right hair, with the right hands, with the right everything. He could have collapsed. He hadn't Changed. He was still him. He hadn't Changed.

But then Thomas decided to say something to Vergilius, after all. "I'm sorry, Anxiety."

Vergilius' head snapped up. "What?"

"I'm sorry," Thomas repeated. "All that constant change was exactly what you were trying to avoid—what _I_ was trying to avoid." He deflated. "I should have listened to you in the first place. It would have saved us a lot of time."

Vergilius' eyes watered.

"I don't feel as out of control anymore," he said. "There's nothing I can do about my friends and I growing in opposite directions for our lives and our jobs, but I _can_ keep in regular contact with them. We have our phones and the internet."

But then, against his will, Vergilius' function kicked back with a vengeance. "Is that enough?" he hissed, already hating himself for ruining the moment.

But Thomas didn't snap back at him. "Plenty of friendships start online," he said calmly. "Some never even meet in person."

Vergilius felt like he'd stepped under a cool waterfall. His muscles relaxed. He sighed, nodding to himself. He pulled his hood back down. "Okay," he said. _Thank you_ died in his throat, so instead he went with: "I… _do_ feel a little better."

Thomas' eyes glinted. "Enough to maybe…tell us your name?"

Vergilius froze.

"You are the last one," Patton pointed out, "and even we don't know your name, so we're kinda curious."

Roman's contemptuous glare still burned on the side of Vergilius' head. He couldn't tell if Roman felt _entitled_ to his name, like it offended him they'd even have to ask, or if he didn't think Vergilius deserved one and felt outrage at the thought.

Orange fury burned in Vergilius' chest again, and he locked his jaw subtly. They wanted his name, did they? After they'd Changed him multiple times without his permission. After running rough-shot over him. After treating him like all he could do was _hurt_ when he'd been on their side the whole time. Was that how they thought this game got played?

Vergilius' skin still crawled from the last three times, but this would be different. After all, he couldn't control _much_ , but he would control _this._

"Well…" He sighed, hamming up his resignation. "Okay. My name is…" Everyone tensed with anticipation. It took all Vergilius' self-control not to give up the ghost and burst out laughing. He shifted into the smaller frame that had first sent him into a fit and cried, "Talyn!"

Everyone groaned. Vergilius shoved back into his proper form before the terror could choke him again.

"Wait, _is your name_ Talyn?" Patton asked hopefully.

"No!" Vergilius laughed. "You all take turns today Changing what I look like and you expect me to tell you my name? _Fat chance_."

Thomas winced. "Okay, that's fair. New rule. Nobody Changes unless they want to."

Vergilius stopped dead.

Thomas frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," Vergilius murmured, and sank out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am now trying my hand at maintaining a Tumblr. Consider it my debut into the nightmare that is social media. I have an ask blog and a submit posts page on there, so you guys are free to be as interactive as you like. I want to try to foster a good relationship with my fans because I love you guys. You can ask questions like updates on how the drafting for the second part is going, ask any questions of specific Sides in this universe. If you wanna request short little funny bits, I am happy to do my best to comply.
> 
> It's [tssidesfic.tumblr.com](https://tssidesfics.tumblr.com/) if you guys want to check it out.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Known Sides make Vergilius an offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you guys choked up at earlier chapters, you are _definitely_ gonna hurt with this bad boy. For the next several chapters--at least until chapter twenty-three--we're talking nonstop angst. We're coming up on the darkest hour, if you're familiar with plot beats, and it lasts...for a bit.
> 
> So, basically, just get your tissues ready. Also stuffed animals and ice cream and whatever else you use for comfort.
> 
> Free cyber hugs, animal cuddles, and cookies available in the end notes.
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Stylized panic attack (although not _totally_ removed from reality, because I've had panic attacks like this, and they're really trippy), discussion of toxic family, suspicion of abuse, dread of going home, feelings of unspoken rejection

"I don't want to feel this way forever (a dead letter marked to sender)." ~ "Understanding in a Car Crash" by _Thursday_

* * *

* * *

A PLATE OF COOKIES GREETED VERGILIUS IN THE CONSCIOUS MIND.

He shielded his eyes instinctually, but he officially no longer needed to. They didn't even burn from the glare—but his instincts still roared. Why leave a plate of cookies unattended, alone, in the middle of the Conscious Mind? It had to be a trap—revenge for just now, or earlier, or _something_.

Vergilius eyed the cookies. They looked fresh and delicious, even if they were suspicious. But they looked _so good_ , and he could use something sweet after everything that had just happened. It was a larger stack. If he took one _carefully_ from the middle, he doubted anyone would notice. His fingers twitched toward it. He glanced around, nerves shot, and lunged for a cookie.

"Anxiety?"

Vergilius launched seven feet into the air, shapeshifted into a tarantula and almost immediately back into a human, and then landed on the ground like a cat, hissing. Roman screamed and drew his sword, brandishing it in front of him.

A breath passed. Two. Neither of them moved. Vergilius prepared to bolt.

"Will you get up?" Roman demanded. "I'm not going to attack you!"

Vergilius scowled and looked pointedly at the katana Roman still hadn't put away. Roman's cheek flamed red and he vanished the sword with a waggle of his fingers. Vergilius slowly rose, letting his shoulders relax a little at a time.

"You were about to steal a cookie, weren't you?" Roman accused.

Vergilius froze. He weighed his options: tell the truth and get run through with a sword or lie, possibly glow yellow, and _still_ get run through with a sword? He didn't like either outcome, but at least one kept Deceit out of his business.

"Yeah," he admitted, averting his eyes. "I…yeah. Didn't figure you'd miss one."

"Well, you were wrong."

Roman's disapproval had always burned—like an open flame, like scalding water, like concentrated hatred. That's what set it apart from Logan's—cool, constant pressure—or Patton's bitter sting. Vergilius expected to meet it when he lifted his eyes, but instead, he found something else. He didn't know _what_ he found, but it didn't burn like almost any other emotion Roman spared for him. Vergilius narrowed his eyes at him—warily, but also curiously, trying to riddle out the light in his eyes.

Roman _always_ emoted. Unlike Logan, whose baseline hovered in the realm of "blank slate," or Deceit, who mustered a deadly amount of boredom for his every interaction, Roman and Remus always wore their feelings on their faces, in their body language. Even when they didn't emote, you could still tell _why_. Remus shut down when he feared abandonment.

Vergilius had no reality on what might make Roman shut down, nor much interest in finding out. It didn't matter either way. Whatever this expression was, it wasn't _expressionlessness_. Vergilius could see the fires of _something_ blazing brilliantly in Roman's eyes—like stained glass, he noted; a delicate work of art. Fitting for the prettier side of Creativity.

But Roman definitely felt _something_ intensely right then. Whatever it was, it was just so unfamiliar that Vergilius couldn't begin to guess.

And then Roman lunged.

Vergilius screamed and launched back at least four feet, landing in a crouch. He hissed again and reached inside himself to try and summon his machete.

Roman stared at him, aghast. " _Seriously_?"

Vergilius narrowed his eyes. "Your move, Princey." Any other Side would have elicited _freeze_ or _flight_ , but Roman infuriated Vergilius so much, _fight_ came almost naturally.

Roman held his hands above his head. Slowly, he lowered one. Vergilius watched it like a hawk—until it grasped the plate.

Vergilius scowled.

"I was _going_ to tell you we wouldn't miss any of them," Roman said, holding the baked goods out like an offering. " _Jeez_. Paranoid, much?"

Vergilius flinched, entire body reacting violently to the word. Slowly, he rose to his feet, meekly accepting the plate. Roman's bicep twitched, as if he'd barely restrained himself from thrusting it into Vergilius sternum.

"Well, there you go," he said curtly. What little civility they'd had moments ago dissolved so quickly, Vergilius wondered if he'd imagined it. "Take your damn pity cookies back with you to Mr. I-Like-My-Pits-to-Smell-Body-Dump-Fresh and Dr. I-Forged-My-Ph.D.-and-Killed-a-Man."

Vergilius snorted despite himself. "That…was the most succinct summary I've heard of those two _ever_ ," he said approvingly. "Nice one, Princey."

Roman scowled. "Aren't you supposed to be self-righteous?" Roman asked finally. "Try to defend the rest of your degenerate family?"

Vergilius averted his eyes and shrugged. "Well, you didn't insult Remus," he pointed out, setting the plate aside.

"What?" Roman bristled. "Yes, I did."

"No, you didn't, because if you had, Remus wouldn't legally change his name to Remus I-Like-My-Pits-to-Smell-Body-Dump-Fresh if he could."

Roman held eye contact for a moment and slumped. "Dammit. Then what _would_ insult him?"

"Basically nothing," Vergilius lied, because no way in hell was he telling Remus' shitty twin brother the best ways to devastate his self-esteem. Roman could suck a tit.

" _Fuck_ ," Roman said emphatically.

"He'd like that, too."

Roman glared and Vergilius couldn't help the smirk that crawled across his face. "Well, fine, Seasons of Angst. I'm guessing Deceit would _love_ my insult, too?"

"Oh, no, he'd resent the implication that forging a Ph.D. and murdering someone were in any way connected," Vergilius admitted, "and also, if you want to insult him, tell him his scales look fake."

Roman performed a stumbling double-take and tilted his head to the side, scowling at Vergilius. "Wait, what?"

"Tell him his scales look fake," he repeated, "or really any part about him that isn't what he says, because—"

"—he prides himself on being fake when he speaks." Roman nods, scoffing. " _Ugh_ , I hate that guy and his creepy half snake face."

"Imagine living with him." Vergilius glared at the wall over Roman's shoulder and pictured a photograph of Deceit he could throw darts at. Knowing him, he'd panic over the darts and never touch one, but the fantasy was fun.

Roman whistled. " _Whoa_ , you really hate him, don't you?" This time, Roman sounded approving.

Vergilius looked back at him. He considered not answering, or lying, and decided on, "I'd hate him if I was smart." He shook his head. "I'm not. So."

"Then why do you keep going back?" It was part-frustrated demand and part-sincere question.

Vergilius averted his eyes. "It's like you said," he murmured. "They're my family. You've gotta stick with family. Besides, it's not like I'm welcome anywhere else." He risked meeting Roman's eyes and found them blazing with neutrality. It hurt to see, but it didn't surprise Vergilius any.

Before either of them could say another word, a loud, high-pitched squeal rang out.

"Anxiety!" Patton wrapped around him like a boa constrictor, except ten times cuddlier and less deadly. "I'm so glad you're here! Have you had any cookies yet?"

"Uh…"

"He had one, Padre," Roman told him, and Patton whirled on him. Roman gave a step. "Pa—?"

"I knew you two could get along!" Patton then did the unthinkable: he dragged Vergilius' hand over to Roman's and forcibly linked them. Both of them choked. "See? We'll be the best family ever!" Patton giggled.

Vergilius ripped his hand away and scowled at Roman in horror. Roman scowled back. "Why the hell do the fans ship us?" Roman demanded.

"The fans _what_?"

"What is the matter?" Logan appeared, striding down the stairwell while fixing his tie.

Vergilius was too busy hoping he'd misheard Roman just then to care. He avoided Sanders' Sides Tumblr like the plague for a _reason_.

"Ah, Anxiety," Logan said when he spotted him, and Vergilius looked up. "I hoped to encounter you. I wish to apologize for the events of this last debate. Thomas is resolved to create a video from our…antics, and I hope he chooses to accurately reflect your contributions—and your disdain for the way we arrived at our conclusion." Vergilius forgot the English language in favor of staring uncomprehendingly at Logan's outstretched hand. "It was brought to my attention you intend to claim your room in the Conscious Mind," Logan continued, "and housewarming gifts are appropriate social etiquette for such an occasion, so if you would please provide me with a list of things you find desirable—"

"Logan!" Patton chided harshly before Vergilius could figure out what the hell was going on. "You can't _ask_ someone what they want as a gift. That takes all the… _me_ out of it." He winked melodramatically.

Logan stared at him blankly. "Please, for the love of Newton's Third Law of Motion, _enough with the puns._ "

"Ah, Logan, but that wouldn't be very _pun_." Patton poked Logan and Roman snorted.

Logan's eyes bugged out of his head. "I may scream."

Patton turned to Vergilius. "Don't mind him, kiddo. He knows better than to ask you rude questions like that."

"Rude—how is it rude to ask him what he likes?"

"Because a _gift_ is supposed to be something you _figure out_ they like based on how they act, Logan!" Patton turned on him, arms crossed sternly.

"That is patently absurd—"

"Pattonly?" Patton perked up, heels clicking together audibly.

"Pa _tent_ ," Logan stressed as veins strained against the skin of his forehead. It was like a trainwreck. Vergilius couldn't look away, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roman in a similar position. "Pa _tent_ ly. P-A-T-E-N-T-L-Y. Patently. No pun. _Never_ a pun."

Vergilius rediscovered his voice with an awkward, almost electronic, "Uh…"

"A gift is supposed to be liked, yes? The best way to ensure Anxiety likes his present is if I ask him what he likes. It's simple logic."

"Family isn't _logic_ , Logan."

Vergilius was a lot of things—especially wrapped up in his own issues—but even he couldn't miss the flash of hurt that overtook Logan's face at those words and their double-meaning. Patton hadn't meant it the way it sounded, and thankfully, he hadn't missed it, either.

"Oh. Kiddo, I didn't mean it like that. It's just—"

"It's quite all right, Patton," Logan lied, a yellow glint flashing across his eyes. Vergilius stepped back, slimy fear coating his insides and obstructing his throat. "I am Logic. I do not have the emotion necessary to desire a family."

It was Patton's turn to look offended now. Finally, Roman cut in. "Now, then, Pocket Protector, don't you think that's a little drastic?"

"No, I do not," Logan said levelly. "You are the drastic one in this room, Roman—either you, or Anxiety. Speaking of."

Logan turned to Vergilius. His eyes flashed with challenge, as if to say: _Go ahead. Tell them I lied._

Vergilius didn't. The words caught in his throat, and he just stared.

Logan thrust out a hand. "I would like to extend a formal welcome to the Conscious Mind."

Vergilius forgot everything that had just happened.

He couldn't move. If he didn't know better, he'd think Remus had superglued his feet to the floor as a practical joke again. But no. Everything was still glaringly bright, and the only creative face looking back at him now was Roman's unreadable one. He eyed him like something distasteful, but worth considering, and it made Vergilius' insides squirm.

"That's—" Vergilius couldn't breathe. "That's not—"

"Kiddo?" Patton squeezed between Logan and Roman, resting a hand on Vergilius' shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Vergilius felt like a fish out of water, flapping his mouth like he could magically start using lungs instead of gills. He couldn't get any oxygen. Wait, did fish breathe oxygen? Was it the hydrogen in the water? Vergilius knew there was hydrogen in water. Two of it. Or something.

He gripped his hoodie and struggled to breathe. His vision started to darken, enough that he thought he might have slipped back into the Subconscious, or his room.

"—called capillaries—" Logan was exposing.

"Logan, kiddo, is now the time?" That was Patton's voice. It sounded patronizing. So Vergilius definitely wasn't back in the Subconscious. Good. He didn't want to be caught like this by Rage. "Can't you see Anxiety's upset?"

"He's having an anxiety attack."

"Don't be an idiot, Calculator Watch."

Sputtering—Logan, again. " _How dare_ —?"

" _Guys_." Patton's voice was sharp and grating on Vergilius' ears.

Vergilius didn't need oxygen to survive, let alone stand and function, but apparently, his body hadn't gotten the memo, because the world spun, and he crashed back into the table.

Someone screamed. It was him again, wasn't it?

"Anxiety? Oh God. Logan, do something!"

"I…"

"Oh my gods," Vergilius heard Roman say. "I think he's actually having an anxiety attack."

"No shit!" Logan exploded.

Someone whimpered. Vergilius was really making an ass of himself right now, wasn't he?

"Now is _not_ the time for profanity, Logic!"

"Really? Because it certainly feels like it."

"I thought you didn't feel anything."

"Shut up."

Vergilius couldn't keep track of who was speaking anymore. Different cadences didn't mean he could distinguish between variations on the same voice when he could barely even stay conscious.

"Well, aren't you going to do something? He's going to die!"

He certainly felt like it, but probably not, unless Rage moseyed along and decided to club him. Or Remus, he supposed. That morning star could do a mean bit of damage when Remus wanted it to. But, of course, Remus would never do something like that, no matter what his intrusive thoughts said.

Right?

"We are figments of Thomas' imagination. We can't die."

"Wanna bet? Do something, you Iron Giant nerd!"

"That was weak."

"Well, sorry, I don't come up with my best material when someone is _actively dying in front of me_!"

There was a term Logan should learn, Vergilius thought dumbly. Disaster Gays. It summed up the Known Sides rather well.

"I don't—oh! Anxiety, breathe in for the count of four. With me, now. In, one, two—"

"He's not breathing!"

 _Well, no shit. We're well past breathing exercises at this point._ Vergilius didn't say that, of course, being that the world was a wishy-washy sheet of soapy black. That was a bad description, Vergilius thought. He also didn't care.

"Well done, Specs. You accomplished absolutely nothing."

"If you wanted the ratio of car accidents to ostrich-affiliated deaths each year, I would be the Side you turned to. _This_ is raw emotion!"

"Ostrich-affiliated— _that exists_?"

" _Guys_! It's—"

The world sharpened. Vergilius saw through Thomas' eyes, staring down at his phone with his finger poised to call Joan, unable to move, because what if it was already too late? What if he couldn't fix the schism he'd torn in their relationship? What if they hated him after all, just like Anxiety had said? What if they had moved on?

 _Help Thomas_. Vergilius had to help Thomas—and that meant helping himself.

Vergilius gasped, launching back to stark reality. It was a luxury at best afforded to him as a fraction of someone's personified personality. Short of an extreme extenuating circumstance, Vergilius didn't think a real person with anxiety could ever jar themselves out of an anxiety attack like that, but he could. It meant he would come unglued so badly in the privacy of his own room that its reality distorted, and Thomas suffered gruesome nightmares, but it was the best he could manage. At least then, Roman could counteract him.

Three horrified faces stared back at Vergilius beyond the veil of blind panic, and he could only stare back at them, frozen.

Patton broke the silence first. "Are you all right?"

"What helps you when you have an anxiety attack?"

"You hurt Thomas."

The last—and worst—came from Roman. His expression was dark, terrible. Vergilius knew the katana was on its way. He couldn't bring himself to mind. He deserved it.

Shakily, Vergilius rose to his feet. Patton stabilized him despite his protests. He braced on the table, noting that the cookies had flung off and scattered across the floor. No one had bothered to recover them or snap them to safety. They were too focused on him.

Why had they all focused on him?

Roman's gaze hadn't softened, but Patton remained as placating as ever. "Roman, I don't think Anxiety meant to do that. It was an accident."

"He _hurt_ him, Patton," Roman stressed, hand clenched at his side. His head snapped over to glare at Vergilius, who wilted. "None of us, _ever_ , are supposed to hurt Thomas. That is the _only_ rule, and he _broke it_."

"I wish I could stop." Vergilius' voice was rough, scratching up his throat like sandpaper. Then tears moistened his larynx, and he choked out, "I _want_ to stop. I keep trying. It's getting worse. My influence is getting stronger and I'm losing control. I keep it away from Thomas as much as I can. I'm just…" He shook his head. "I'm not strong enough, and I won't Fade. God knows if there was a decent solution, I'd take it, but…"

Vergilius couldn't stand the way everyone was looking at him—pitying, like he was some pathetic little imp sapping their emotional resources, incurring their sympathy like currency. He felt sick. He felt filthy. He felt vile.

No one moved for a moment. And then, to his surprise, Logan summoned a jagged line graph from nowhere. Along the bottom were dates. The graph slid along like a movie, but it appeared to be on a simple white poster board. Along the side were percentages.

"I took the liberty of keeping track of the frequency of Thomas' anxiety attacks," Logan said. "If they reached a point above a healthy, manageable amount, I planned to show it to Thomas as evidence why he should see a therapist."

Vergilius stared dumbfoundedly.

"As you can see, the highest incidences were easily when you first manifested when Thomas was twelve—" Logan gestured at the start of the graph. It zoomed along for what had to be a couple pages. "—and then again in—" Something flashed across Logan's face. "—in college, when his emotional regulation was at its lowest from stress. Both instances can be traced back to sources of stress in his life at the time: the sudden emergence of a new, confusing struggle and the emotional taxation of university."

The graph crawled along then, showing a rapid decrease followed by an almost flat line. "Following that, Thomas' anxiety was at a manageable, almost forgettable level. It didn't even flare when you started appearing for videos. In fact, it decreased for a brief period here." He gestured, and Vergilius flashed back to discovering his name and finding new footing with the others again. His heart clenched. "It's only spiked recently, in these last few months, and that is the only anomaly I've discovered. Nothing too overt has been going awry in Thomas' life, but his anxiety is still unnaturally heightened."

The graph disappeared and Vergilius snapped his eyes up to meet Logan's. "If what just occurred is any indication, Thomas most often panics when _you_ panic—on, objectively, a far more severe scale." Vergilius recoiled from shame. "The logical extrapolation from these facts is that _you_ are under immense duress, and it is _overflowing_ , so to speak, onto Thomas."

That should have, by rights, incurred another lengthy, awkward silence, but Patton broke it right away with a distressed gasp. "Oh! Oh, no, my poor angsty bean—"

Vergilius choked. "Your _wh_ —?"

"—have we been upsetting you? We're so sorry! Logan, Roman, say you're sorry." Patton shot them both a dark look and they snapped to attention like soldiers.

"I'm sorry," they chorused in unison.

Vergilius stared at Patton. "Has anyone ever told you you're terrifying?"

Patton's eyes shined. "I am?"

"Of course not, Padre." Roman rested a hand on Patton's shoulder. "Anxiety didn't mean that. _Did you, Anxiety_?" He glared hatefully at Vergilius, who caught a glint of steel and nodded quickly.

"Yeah. Yep. Nope, I was just kidding." He smiled. "Sorry, Pat."

Patton relaxed. "You'd tell me if I was, right? I don't wanna scare anybody. That's wrong."

 _And_ there was the awkward silence.

Logan and Roman watched Vergilius' expression. He averted his eyes. Patton started, yelping and babbling, "No, not—not like that. Oh no, I'm just terrible at this, aren't I? I'm so sorry, kiddo. I didn't mean it like that."

"It's the other Unknowns, isn't it?"

Vergilius' head snapped up. Logan's eyes blazed with the intensity of galaxies. "What are you talking about?" Vergilius' collar suddenly felt very tight even though it was anything but.

"Deceit, Ra—" Logan's voice hitched, just briefly. "Rage, and—" He glanced nervously at Roman, who shrunk away. Vergilius was shocked to see shame on his face. "They are negatively affecting you."

Vergilius' mouth was dry. "N—" he started, but he could already feel Deceit's influence swell with the sound. He cut himself off, heart hammering against his ribcage. Deceit would know even if he was lying to himself, but he wasn't, not anymore. Even he couldn't turn a blind eye to the writing on the wall. He closed his eyes. "Yes."

"Oh God."

More than anything else in the world, hearing Patton take the Lord's name in vain was a slap across the face and Vergilius looked up to stare at him. Tears ran down his cheeks. He looked like Remus had pulled his guts out.

"Oh—they're hurting you, aren't they? Anxiety, I'm—" Patton flung his arms around his neck. "Stay here," he begged. "Stay with us. Please. They can't get you here. Just stay."

Vergilius' breath hitched, and he stared ahead.

"That would be the most reasonable solution, yes," Logan said, meeting his eyes. "They are strictly prohibited from this area, as they are subconscious aspects of Thomas' personality. They literally cannot _come here_." Logan fixed his tie, clearing his throat. "It would be prudent for you to stay here to remove yourself from a toxic situation, thereby alleviating Thomas' heightened anxiety—if that is, indeed, what you want to do."

The ocean and blood and a stadium of diehard footfall fans roared in Vergilius' ears. He swayed in place. Patton steadied him. "Please." Vergilius had never seen so much desperation in two eyes. "Just _stay_."

But there was one member of the room remaining silent, and Vergilius lifted his gaze to meet his.

Roman stared, completely, utterly, painfully unreadable. "If it will help Thomas," he said evenly, "I don't have a problem with it."

The unspoken hung in the air between them like a vacuum. _But I still have a problem with you_.

Vergilius closed his eyes and made peace with something he hadn't even known had been eating him alive.

Roman would never accept him as anything except exactly what he had begun as. He could turn his back on the others. He could tell him his name. He could even change his clothes, his makeup, his entire _appearance_ , but when Roman looked at him, Roman would always see something hideous, twisted, and immoral. He would never be rid of his roots to him.

Every time Roman spoke to him, interacted with him, _looked_ at him, Vergilius would be reminded that he didn't belong. Roman didn't need his katana to cut him down.

He just needed his hate.

Vergilius hung his head and pried away from Patton, who made these stutter-y, wet sounds, trying to pull him back in. He shook his head, and Patton gave a step. Just like that. He didn't even have to speak, and even though it visibly tore Patton up to do it, he respected his boundaries.

The other Unknowns had never done that. Deceit knew his lies and machinations set Vergilius on edge. Remus knew his explosive orgies triggered panic attacks. Rage knew his temper sent him into fight or flight. They had never, not _once_ , tried to modify their behavior.

"Thank you," Vergilius said quietly, voice shaking with grief and sincerity, "but I…" He thought through the next word carefully. "…won't."

"What?" Logan stiffened. "That makes absolutely no logical sense. They are upsetting you. That is upsetting Thomas. That—"

"Moving here wouldn't be any better," Vergilius said, meeting his eyes. "I don't belong. The only solution is just to…to try to Fade."

" _No_!" Patton broke down sobbing and Roman swept him up in his arm, tucking his head in his chest.

Vergilius watched the sweet, intimate, loving moment with an aching hole in his chest. He'd never find that. With anyone. He turned away needlessly. He didn't know a way to walk to Subconscious, but it felt like the thing to do. A graceful, terrible leave-taking from something beautiful he could never have.

Least of all with them.

"Anxiety…"

A spark of hope caught in Vergilius' chest and, like a fool, he turned to look at Roman. "Yeah?"

Roman closed his eyes. "See you next video."

Vergilius sunk out before they could see his tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get your free cyber hugs and animal cuddles and cookies here. Author advises cute animal compilations.
> 
> Also, I've been helping edit the writing for a friend's [comic](https://www.webtoons.com/en/challenge/devil-went-down-to-vegas/terminated/viewer?title_no=333212&episode_no=1). _When a demon Dev loses his job down in hell, he goes the only place fit for someone like him: Las Vegas._ It's got really through world-building and it's just a fun time. If you guys are interested at all, give it a look.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergilius makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...grab a stuffed animal or whatever you use to comfort yourself, because this...you're gonna bawl.
> 
> Warnings: Intense arguments, semi-graphic description of violence, temporary character death, betrayal, complicated regret, mind manipulation. This one took me a while to decide to put in, and it's very, very sensitive, so there is a very, very BRIEF reference to sexual assault in this. It's two seconds and then it's done, and if you don't catch it, I'm glad. It's Remus, and what he says is pretty insensitive. I have a history myself and I graded whether I should put it in with that, but PLEASE, be careful. If you get triggered, let me know and I'll immediately take it out. I've wrestled with whether to include this line forever.
> 
> Also, this is where Vergilius' situation gets a little better contextualized and contrasted with reality, and that section is written from the perspective of someone who has tried, repeatedly, to get out of a toxic situation and never been able to because it wasn't safe or smart yet. I _know_ how it feels to have an ugly showdown with a family that hurts you. I've done it multiple times. If you know that feeling, too, proceed with caution.
> 
> Take time for yourself, be safe, and I hope you enjoy the update.
> 
> I revised the first part of Chapter Nine of this slightly, by the way. While drafting the second part, I came up with a cool piece of world-building that added character and depth and stuff, but I had to edit that in here. It doesn't change the reading experience here, really. It might, but in a very negligible way. You're free to read that first.
> 
> And one last thing. If you want to set a mood for this chapter? Listen to ["Dynasty" by _MIIA_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ryw2Z1P-WVM), ["In My Veins" by Andrew Belle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0KZuZF01FA), and ["To Build a Home" by _The Cinematic Orchestra_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_ICgbOVD10). You can make a playlist to listen to while you read if you're familiar with the songs; you can listen to them ahead of time. Do whatever you like, but they kinda enhance the reading experience. Music is a great way to put yourself in a mood if you don't think you've hurt enough reading this fic.

"Yeah, the friends who stuck together. / We wrote our names in blood. / But I guess you can't accept that the change is good." ~ "Ignorance" by _Paramore_

* * *

* * *

VERGILIUS COULDN'T BRING HIMSELF TO LEAVE HIS ROOM.

He'd curled up against his headboard, rocking with his fingernails gouging red lines into his scalp. He prayed to Fade soon, and painlessly. He prayed Logan and Patton would forget him. He prayed Thomas didn't need him as much as a voice in the back of his head nagged that he did. He prayed Roman might forgive him for being what he was if he removed himself from the equation. He prayed Deceit wouldn't knock on his door. He prayed Remus wouldn't notice his disappearance. He prayed Rage would leave him to his Fade in peace. He prayed for it to end, and he prayed for Thomas to notice his distress and save him. Summon him, summon Roman, mediate a truce.

He prayed for anything and everything, but God didn't listen to figments of one man's overactive imagination.

Thomas was recording footage for the next Sanders' Sides episode. Vergilius watched him horse around with his friends, laughing and maintaining eyelines. Everything was just fine with them. They were as happy as they'd ever been.

Thomas was happy.

He started recording the parting words for what he was calling, "Making Some Changes." 

Vergilius preferred to stay out of the actual creation, completion, and publication of the Sanders' Sides content. After Thomas converted the New Year's discussion into a music video, he'd been too humiliated, nervous, and annoyed to check back. He also stayed away from the swelling fan base on Tumblr with all due caution. Curiosity nagged at him sometimes, but it was better he stayed out of it.

He wasn't sure what compelled him to change his mind that day. Maybe it was the thought of leaving Thomas. Maybe he just wanted to see him one last time, or maybe he wanted to check that he really _had_ been wrong about the growing schisms between Thomas and his friends. Maybe he wanted something to hope for.

What he got was none of these.

What he got was a reason to fight.

"And I hope you all know the changes you have control in your own life," Thomas told the camera. The strange feeling of talking to a camera surrounded by actual friends hadn't completely gone away, but it _had_ subsided enough that Thomas barely noticed it anymore.

Vergilius shifted forward a little, narrowed his eyes, and listened.

"The friendships you have don't have to be limited by distance," Thomas began.

" _Actually, I was going to tell you that was a good debate today."_

" _I'm so proud of you, kiddo! You did great out there."_

"And if you're not happy with the direction you're going, there's no pressure."

" _I'll respect your wishes not to associate you with your former self and his compatriots when you cease associating with them, yourself."_

"You can always make another change."

" _You gotta help us protect Thomas from them. I know you can do it. You look like a fighter to me—like, a_ good _fighter."_

"Until next time, guys, gals, and non-binary pals. Peace out!"

" _We divine meaning from our choices and nothing else."_

The resolve Vergilius never knew he had strengthened. It thrummed with the power of a warrior. It thrummed with the courage of a man with something left to lose, something left to fight for. He lifted his eyes.

Metal glinted out of the corner of his eye and he looked over. His machete laid across his nightstand. Its leather hilt sung seductively to him.

Roman didn't accept him, not really. He didn't know him, didn't understand him, and Vergilius represented his antithesis in so many ways. They weren't built to like each other. And sure, that posed a problem. How could Thomas accept Vergilius when the Side _most_ responsible for his livelihood didn't? But maybe Roman needed to see Vergilius take a stand. Maybe he needed to see him _prove_ , beyond a shadow of doubt, that he had changed his allegiances as well as himself. Maybe Roman needed to _know_ Vergilius wouldn't fall back on old habits; maybe he needed to see him leave his dark, suspicious, manipulative roots behind. Maybe then, Roman could accept Vergilius as one of the team.

And even if he didn't, Vergilius still had Patton and Logan, and that was better than anything he had in the Subconscious. Even Remus.

Vergilius reached out and gripped the machete firmly. His arm trembled until it didn't. His chest vibrated until it thrummed. His breaths caught until they slid through pursed lips like butter.

Maybe Paranoia could serve him, Vergilius thought, just one last time. Maybe he could give him the strength to stand up for himself, stand up to his fellow demons, and make an impossible choice. Just one. Last. Time.

And then—then, Virgil would put the bastard down for good.

" _How about you head to your room?"_

* * *

"Virgie!" Remus called when he saw him striding down the stairwell. "Ooh! You have Terror!"

"Oh, I'm _sure_ Vergilius would bring his old weapon down with him," Deceit drawled, wandering from the kitchen while drying his gloves on a black towelette. "That makes perfect sense. It isn't like he's outgrown that particular part of his—"

Deceit stilled when he saw Vergilius, and Vergilius glared back at him, heart hammering. Terror and exhilaration mixed in his gut, and for the first time, Vergilius understood adrenaline junkies. Nothing could compare to this high.

But then he saw the light in Deceit's eyes, the hesitation in Remus', and felt the fear grip both. He faltered, resolve flickering, waning—

And then Rage came around the corner. "Oh, you're finally socializing again, are you?" He rolled his eyes.

Something calm caught fire in Vergilius' chest, and Rage gave ground. "How much did you just hear?"

"I…" Rage glanced at the others, and Vergilius watched the color drain from Remus' face.

"Wait, Virgie, I didn't know you didn't want him to know!" he cried. "It just slipped out. Like soap in a prison bathroom!" Remus giggled. "But if you don't want him to know, we can cut into his brain and carve out the memories."

Vergilius stared at him. The ocean roared in his ears.

Remus had betrayed him. _Remus_. Had betrayed him. _Remus_. The one Side in this whole foul empire he trusted. The one Side he respected. The one Side he called friend. The Side he'd named himself to reflect.

And he'd betrayed him.

Vergilius glowed orange.

Deceit set his towelette aside and scooped up his cane. Vergilius' hand tensed around his machete. "It _wasn't_ an accident, Vergilius," he said soothingly. "Remus _wasn't_ just worried when the Knowns triggered you in this last video rehearsal and—"

"How the hell did you know about that?"

Remus, Deceit and Rage exchanged nervous looks. The Us Family, altogether again. For the first time, the thought made Vergilius want to be sick. His machete trembled at his side.

"Jan-Jan caught Logic lying about his feelings again," Remus said cautiously. Caution wasn't a good tone for his voice.

Vergilius heart pounded in his ears, his arms, his wrists, his everything.

"I was just checking to make sure everything went all right," Deceit assured him while yellow gloves still fit snugly over his hands.

And Vergilius hissed. " _I knew it_."

Deceit gave a step.

"I _knew_ you were just using me." The machete burned in Vergilius' hand and he brought it up to bear. Red-hot tears of rage and betrayal poured down his cheeks in rivers in ink. "This whole time, I kept telling myself everything we were doing was for Thomas, but Patton was right. The only person you're out for is _yourself_."

"Are you deaf, motherfucker?" Rage surged in front of Deceit, bringing his bat to bear. "He just told you he was _checking on you_!"

"With his gloves on."

The room stilled—no, it _tensed_ , and silenced, enough that Vergilius heard Deceit's quiet gasp.

"The only time he tells the truth is when he takes off a glove," Vergilius continued, staring past Rage, glaring at Deceit. "Isn't that right, _Deceit_?"

"Virgie!" Remus protested. Tears hung thick in his words. "His name's Janus! You know that!"

"Do I?" A hysterical laugh tugged at the back of Vergilius' throat, wet with tears. "He was still wearing his gloves when he told us that."

Remus stopped.

"Tell them, Deceit," he said. He was _vibrating_ with energy now, almost out of his skin. Vergilius knew this courage was temporary. He could already feel it slipping away. He needed to hurry up, but he was chained to the spot—chained to his feelings, chained to his passion, chained to the grief of spending all these many, _cursed_ years here, in the dark, when he could have had a family in the light.

"Tell them what it means when you take your gloves off."

Deceit held Vergilius' gaze. He didn't move. He didn't breathe. He didn't answer. For a moment, all was still. All was quiet. All was calm.

Until it wasn't.

"This is the problem with you, Anxiety!" Deceit ripped off both his gloves and threw them on the ground. Vergilius laughed giddily despite the orange glow around him. "You can't trust anyone, not even your own family! We lost Paranoia for _you_!"

" _Janus_!"

Some dumb, guilty voice in the back of Virgil's head knew Remus was the child caught in his parent's martial dispute, sobbing on the floor and begging them to stop. The rest of him couldn't hear it over the sound of freedom.

"You think Paranoia cared about you, either?" Vergilius demanded. "He was too caught up in the next film noir action flick scenario to give a flying fuck about you! All he wanted was excitement and violence and terror! You weren't his family! None of you even know what family _means_!"

" _Liar_!"

"I remember what you did to me!" Vergilius yelled, and Deceit stopped. "I remember what you did, when I was Fear. Have you forgotten, Deceit?" His hands trembled, machete glinting wildly in the eerie light as it quaked. "It wasn't Patton who made me leave. Patton didn't even _exist_ as Patton yet. You know who _did_ chase me away?"

Deceit opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

Vergilius laughed bitterly. "Yeah. Yeah. I wonder, you know, sometimes. Do you scream so loudly about the Knowns being cruel for rejecting us because you know you're just like them? Because you know you're _worse_?"

Remus and Rage stared dumbfoundedly, like they didn't know who to gape at.

"I guess we're not the only ones who can lie to ourselves then, are we, Deceit?"

Deceit's eyes shined. Part of Vergilius wondered about that—wondered why he would cry when Vergilius meant nothing to him, when he hadn't even played along with his game in weeks and months. When all he had ever been was a pawn to him, to move around according to his whims, then sacrifice when the time was right.

If a black pawn reached the other side in a chess match, it assumed the form of one of the more valuable black pieces lost. But Vergilius thought, maybe—just maybe—he could turn white.

Rage must have determined Vergilius' hurt and outrage at how he'd been treated was less important than Deceit's pain, however fake or real that was, because he threw him behind him defensively and roared, "Is this _seriously_ how you pay us back for helping you, you piece of shit?"

" _Helping me_?" Vergilius scoffed. "When have you _ever_ helped me?"

"You didn't notice?" Remus leapt forward, smiling unnaturally bright. "We all gave you some _juicy stuff_ when the Knowns triggered you. I was the one who gave you that fun fantasy about smashing Logic's skull open!" Remus sounded proud of himself.

Vergilius couldn't breathe. "You…you what?"

"You heard him," Rage snarled. "He gave you some nice, brutal fantasies to distract you, I gave you some good old-fashioned rage, and Janus helped you lie and block out the panic. No need to thank us." His voice bludgeoned with sarcasm.

Vergilius stared.

"We can fantasize more?" Remus volunteered. "Take it out on Logic and Morality an—"

"Remus, shut up," Deceit warned too late.

"You _invaded my mind_?" The words flew from Vergilius' tongue like acid, and the Unknowns each recoiled from him. Remus' face fell. "You—you expect me to _thank you_ for _violating me_? For shoving your way into my head, into my thoughts, into my—and you expect me to be _grateful_?"

"We were helping you!" Rage screamed.

"By _manipulating me_?" Shadows stretched, elongating from the walls, spreading like an octopus' ink in water. Vergilius' voice multiplied. " **If the Knowns Changing my body hurt me, what the hell did you think I'd do when you Changed my** _ **mind**_ **?** "

"Mind" reverberated off the walls, echoing and refracting and shaking the Subconscious. Vergilius' vision remained unaffected by the shadows, and he watched the Unknowns flail around in pitch blackness. Rage waved his bat around his head wildly. Remus summoned a lit candle made from human earwax, but it made no difference. Deceit's pet snake appeared to coil tightly around his neck and he gripped a railing he summoned out of nowhere for stability, but then Rage's bat smacked into a shelf and it came crashing down onto Remus. He screamed.

The darkness broke and Vergilius stumbled back, foot slipping and catching on the next step. He barely stopped himself from crashing down the stairs.

Rage stopped panicking to look around in wide-eyed bewilderment. Remus had already started sawing off the leg trapped under the shelf, and Deceit's pet snake was still wrapped around his neck like a living scarf while he white-knuckled his cane and the railing. It was bizarre, seeing him without gloves. One hand was utterly human, manicured and smooth, while the other was covered in golden scales.

One by one, they all turned to look at Vergilius. Silence reigned.

But then Rage choked a war cry and charged.

Vergilius leapt over the stair railing, tucking and rolling as Rage overbalanced lunging for him, foot slipping off a step. He crashed back down as Vergilius had almost just done, grunting and crying out as he thudded to the floor. When Rage lifted his eyes, they both blazed like tiny, supercharged suns, even though his left was still cloudy with sightlessness. Rage shoved back to his feet.

Vergilius couldn't unstick his feet from where he stood. He braced for yet another death at the hands of someone who should have been his brother, and months more trapped in the hopelessness of the Subconscious and the Us family.

But then there was Remus and his Morningstar, smashing into the side of Rage's head, spikes crashing through flesh and bone, blood flying, brain matter splattering. Remus was a berserker, bringing the weapon down on Rage again and again, until the air was thick with fear and then still with shock.

Vergilius and Remus panted, side by side, staring at Rage's mutilated body. His fingers twitched, but otherwise, he didn't move. Blood pooled on the ground around him. It was grotesque. It was raw. It felt _real_.

"He _won't_ wake up," Deceit told them, nudging Rage's dangling jaw with the toe of his boot. His gloves were back. He looked at them, nodding to Remus, and then looking to Vergilius. His jaw set. No one moved or spoke.

The courage Vergilius had come here with was gone. He couldn't breathe. He didn't remember what he'd planned if something went wrong. He wasn't sure he had planned anything. Had he seriously expected this to go off without a hitch?

"Rage will _easily_ forgive you for this," Deceit told him, holding his gaze. "So will I."

Vergilius scoffed, and tears choked him. He shook his head. "That works out just great," he said, "because I'll never forgive you for anything you've ever done to me."

Deceit eyes shined. Vergilius wondered if he would challenge him—if he would stand up for himself, for his family, for his virtue, and defend any number of the billion decisions he'd made Vergilius couldn't justify for himself. He wondered if Deceit cared about his so-called family enough to put aside his secrets and manipulations, to hang up his gloves and the title of villain, if only for a little while.

And something deep, _deep_ inside Vergilius, despite _everything_ , prayed he would.

He didn't.

"Then you've officially outlived your usefulness," he said.

"Janus!" Remus lunged toward him, but Deceit threw out his cane, shoving Remus aside. His forked tongue tasted the air. A yellow eye blazed.

"You're not even going to try to deny it?" Vergilius asked, and he hated how fragile his voice sounded.

Deceit—Janus— _whoever he was_ —stared at him. His snake raised its head to glare at Vergilius alongside its master. Three yellow eyes blazed at him now. "Do you think they'll welcome you?" he hissed. Amidst the rage, Vergilius heard grief. Amidst the disgust, he heard regret. "Do you think their good will is undying? They don't know you. They don't know your roots. They don't know what's made you."

"And you do?"

Metal glinted out of the corner of Vergilius' eye and he spotted his machete, abandoned on the ground where he'd crashed jumping off the stairwell. A spot of blood shined on the edge. He glanced down to see his own arm nicked. He looked over to see Rage, still splayed and broken over the floor, still motionless. He looked up to see Remus' eyes shine.

Vergilius couldn't handle the pain in them, so he locked eyes with Deceit instead. His mismatched irises blazed with something unknowable, and even while Vergilius' nerves sang that he was missing something and about to pay the price, his soul settled with relief. He couldn't bear to watch someone's heart break while he squeezed it.

"I'm not Paranoia," he breathed. "I barely remember him. Have you _ever_ bothered to look at me the way I am now? Or am I just the thing that murdered your 'ally' to you?"

Deceit's scales glistened—whether because they just naturally refracted what little light surrounded them or because he cried, Vergilius couldn't tell. He was tired of trying to guess.

"At least Paranoia wasn't constantly getting underfoot," Deceit strangled, "and then whining about it. How long do you think they'll tolerate you dragging everything sunny and hopeful down? How long do you think they'll humor you before they chase you away? They turned on you when you were Fear. What makes you think Anxiety is any different?"

The blow didn't even sting. Vergilius was too numb to feel it now. "Because I am," Vergilius murmured. "I've Changed."

And because he hated himself, he looked at Remus one last time to see ugly tears crash down his cheeks. Remus shook his head at him pleadingly. Vergilius couldn't bring himself to move, and Remus swallowed, approaching him like a wild animal. Vergilius waited. Remus bent down and picked up his machete, handing it to him.

Vergilius sucked in a breath. "It's yours now," Vergilius said quietly, pressing it toward him. Remus choked back a sob. "Goodbye, Remus."

If Vergilius had a heart, he would have given Remus a hug goodbye, but he didn't. Vergilius was a coward, and he was heartless, and he was cruel, so he just bowed his head and stepped back.

He sunk out before he could see Remus' broken pieces crash to the floor.

* * *

There are a million sappy Lifetime and Hallmark and indie movies dramatizing the flight from toxic environments, with clear-cut lines of good and bad, abuser and victim, whose protagonists wear triumphant smiles as they leave their terror and pain in the dust trail kicked up by their feet and car tires while upbeat, soulful music plays to drive home that this is a good, victorious moment and the audience should feel their chests trill with vicarious relief for the hero. They should root throughout the movie for them to escape, surging to their feet with cheers. The main characters sometimes stand on rooftops or drive at top speed down a mountainside road with the car cover down and the wind ripping through their hair, a smile almost bigger than their face plastered across it.

Every one of those movies inspire real people in unhappy home situations to fantasize about the day they have enough and stand up for themselves. The day they call the cops, the day they hit back, the day they take the gun used to menace them out of the safe and turn it against those who terrorize them. Those people script out what they will say when that special day comes, how their abusers will react. They imagine a climax as terrifying and riveting as they come; a blowout fight, fists n' cuffs, sirens blaring through the neighborhood, and the 911 or 999 or whatever emergency number your country has operator supporting you and helping you breathe through the panic. The cops validating your experiences, telling you how well you did, and the system surging to your aid to get you on your feet, to help you succeed and excel in a world that used to be rigged against you.

Those fantasies give those people hope. Virgil knows this because those fantasies gave him hope through every panic attack, every simmering wedge of anger, every moment of doubt or fear or uncertainty. They rocked him to sleep on bad nights, told him there was a light at the end of the tunnel past the pain, past the anxiety, past all the unimaginable, unfathomable _terror_.

But there are a few funny things about fantasies. A few funny, heartbreaking things about fantasies.

Firstly, every time they change, they feel a little more like a nightmare, because something happens that forces reality back into the picture and you must reevaluate how things would really go, and it's never with all the glitter and triumph of the movies. It's with screams and tears and choking, all-consuming terror, phlegm like a noose choking you. There's no uplifting soundtrack playing behind the final flight, and the things that should help people in need don't, and sometimes, you have to choose the lesser of two evils just to survive.

Secondly, fantasies are not premonitions, and the first time something goes off-script, your courage dies in your throat and leaves you stranded, unsure of how to respond while the weight of the world presses down on you and you _know_ —you know this is your one chance, and if you botch it, there's no guarantee it will come again. If you fuck this one up, it's over. It's not triumphant. It's not sure. It's uncertain and frightened, but if you're lucky, you'll do it anyway.

And finally, fantasies are just that: fantasies. They're glittery. They always end with you feeling the best you can, because who fantasizes about wanting to die? They're having that private conversation with your long-term crush that ends with kiss and graduates to the aisle someday, in the maybe-distant future, with kids and a white picket fence. They're living your best life when you're too afraid to take a risk. They're standing on a rooftop bellowing your triumph over the cityscape, finally not wanting to pitch yourself to the concrete below.

Real life isn't like that. Real life is messy and complicated, and it scoops your insides out your chest, your throat, your nose, your eyes and it leaves you hollow, aching on the floor, questioning everything, reevaluating your life, your reasons, your motivations. When the last tears dry, they're not just yours, and there are no clear bad guys to boo at. There's just you and the people you know best who know you best, hurting from shiny, sharp words that cut like daggers. When the blood dries, you're left to patch up your wounds and wonder if it was really worth it, after all.

Life isn't clean. It isn't pretty. It isn't sparkly. It isn't Roman, or Patton, or even Logan, because life isn't always logical, either. It's a lot darker, a lot grittier, a lot crueler. It's usually like Remus and Virgil and Janus and Rage. It's gross, and uncertain, and anxious, and scary, and full of lies and half-truths and below-the-belt jabs. It overflows with more passion than there are words, with anger and everything negative the movies don't show, because it's not pretty. It's disgusting and it's vile and there are no heartfelt moments held on burning bridges.

Just screams, tears, and pain.

Virgil knows he isn't a full person. He's a few disjointed fragments of one smushed together in a personified, imagined mess that _looks_ like the person he's supposed to be a part of, but he's starting to understand why he can cry, why his chest tightens, why his heart stops and beats faster and why his palms sweat and why he feels so human even though he's _not_ human.

It's because a real human created him: a real human with an overactive imagination who, whether he knows it or not, is working out his demons through him. Thomas may not dramatize all this consciously in his mind, but he's poured so much of his being into them that they have no choice but to feel and act and _be_ human, with all the dark realities that come from the human experience.

He can't speak for other people—real people in their own kinds of bad situations, who are seeking hope in the fiction of the screen and the page and their minds. He can just speak to his experience, which is a fragment of Thomas' experience, which is only one man's experience in a sea of people struggling every day, just like him.

Virgil is starting to understand all of this, sitting in his room one day in the future-present while the days blur together and he tries to understand how he arrived here, with a family that accepted him, with a purpose, with a drive, and with a terrible door tucked behind a dresser leading to everything Virgil never wants to be again—to demons he can't reconcile, to guilt he can't extinguish.

Virgil has a life now, and damn him if it isn't a good one, doesn't glitter and shine and sparkle even though he is lackluster and dull and frightening, and he's happy. No one's twisting him in knots, making him question his reality, who he can trust, why he trusts, if he trusts. He is safe. He has a family—a real, proper family that never tries to kill or scare him.

But now his _old_ family is coming back; one after another, they're slipping through the cracks, invited by Thomas to the surface. A snake with a father's face, a duke with a demented laugh. They herald ill. They promise bad things for Thomas, because unlike Virgil, they never Changed their stripes. They are exactly as awful as they have always been, and now they're back, and they're hurting Thomas, and Virgil can't protect him, even though he knows them the most, the best; is supposed to predict their every move, plan for it.

But Deceit has always held every card.

Deceit rigged the chess board, installed little wires inside all the checkers. He controls every game he plays, and he plays every game they play, and they were screwed before they even started.

And Deceit planned on Virgil telling Thomas the truth; he planned to extract it like teeth without painkillers, to relish the grief in Virgil's heart when Thomas looked at him like that—like a monster, like a freak, like something that shouldn't be a part of him, because he is so, so good, and Virgil failed.

The only thing Virgil is good for is protecting Thomas, protecting them _all_ , and he failed, and it's all Deceit's fault.

So, Virgil sits, and Virgil thinks, and Virgil remembers. He remembers the Change. He remembers how it got so messy, so confusing, so awful. He remembers setting his bridges aflame and doubting them and doubting himself and knowing he was doing the right thing even while it hurt and it burned and it stung and it left him hollow, and he remembers hiding in his room and rocking himself and finally, _finally_ , leaving it behind.

Back then, he had still been Vergilius. He wouldn't be for much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get your virtual hugs and stuffed animals and ice cream and condolences here.
> 
> And no, we're still not done with the angst. We're not anywhere _near_ done with the angst. There is still so much more angst to come. It just gonna keep going.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergilius' welcome party isn't very welcoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a longer one. It's also--shocker!--another wall of angst to the face. I told you guys this fic would be unrelenting. On the upside, this chapter houses my favorite line from Logan in the entire fic.
> 
> Warnings: Shock, pseudo-panic attack, mention of abuse, the Knowns kinda being jerks, Roman being a _massive_ but still sympathetic jerk, family disownment

"Rewind and overwrite. / Hope begins at 29, / so won't you let me in?" ~ "Sick Sad World" by _Nervus_

* * *

* * *

VERGILIUS WAS NUMB. Wholly, completely, bitterly, _hopelessly_ numb.

He sat at the floor of his room, staring at a poster of _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ , at the split between Jack Skellington and Sally. He tried to smile. He tried to panic. He tried to cry. He tried to laugh. He tried to do anything that meant anything, but he was made of lead, and lead didn't have emotion. It didn't have anything.

He'd drifted away on a cloud before, moving through life in a daze, feeling a little like a strange in his own body—or whatever this imitation of flesh and bone could be called. This was like that, except not. He didn't hate that experience then. He didn't want to snap out of it.

He wanted to snap out of this.

This version of his room was a lot prettier, Vergilius noted now that he was finally inside it. The old one had been nigh pitch-black, save when he allowed ambient light for outsiders. He'd never minded it, being that he could see perfectly in complete darkness. He remembered Deceit, Rage and Remus had preferred it when they could at least make out silhouettes.

This would require an adjustment, though. He'd known it would be brighter; he'd seen that for himself the first time he peered inside. But something about the almost _brilliant_ twilight unnerved him—crawled beneath his skin to lay roost there, suggested of terrifying things happening in the darker corners.

Vergilius experimented with the light levels. He'd had perfect control before. He never cared to try, but he had every confidence he could have made it brighter than the Conscious Mind if he wanted to. Here, the light resisted his attempts to lower it even halfway. The darkest he could get was the equivalent to a moonlit night, with moderate pollution obscuring the stars in the sky and maybe a few streetlamps thrown in for good measure.

Vergilius left it there. It would be the closest to darkness he'd ever get again.

But—wait. No. Wasn't that what he _wanted_? He wanted to crawl out of the dark. He wanted to give up his old lifestyle and embrace this new way of living. Surely the others couldn't control their rooms the way he used to? Belonging required sacrifices, and control was a small price to pay for family.

Right?

Something hollow ached deep in his chest and he yearned to cry, but no tears fell. He tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn't work. And so, he sat, and he stared at the dual poster hung on the wall in front of him, and he prayed to feel again.

"Glorious day!" he heard someone exclaim on the other side of the door. "Marvelous, glorious, magnificent day!"

"This is so cool!" Another voice, far brighter. "Oh, Thomas is so lucky to have this opportunity! We should send him a gift basket. Ooh! And a handmade card! Those are always the sweetest. They come right from—well, me."

 _Ah_ , Vergilius thought. Patton. The other must have been Roman.

Wait, why could he overhear them? Wasn't his room soundproof? He'd never been able to hear anything except what he _wanted_ to, or what another Side wanted him to, and it didn't sound like any of the others were trying to get his attention. As far as Vergilius knew, the Knowns had no idea he was here.

"Please, Patton, if you would be so kind as to abstain from puns, just until this nonsense is concluded with, I would be much obliged."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean, Legally Yawned?"

"Kids—"

"What in the name of Galileo and the solar system was _that_?"

"It's called a question. I'm sure _you_ wouldn't be familiar, being that you've never asked one in your whole life."

"Never—I am _Logic_. It is my _job_ to ask questions and seek knowledge! How dare—?"

Slowly, Vergilius began to accept a strange reality of the Mindscape: a lack of violence did not mean _peaceful._

" _Enough_!" Patton now, voice sharp. Even Vergilius recoiled from the bite in his tone. "Now then. Roman, apologize to Logan. There was no need to insult him."

Silence—likely taken up by a put-upon groan, if Vergilius knew anything about the wannabe prince. "Sorry, Logan."

"Now, Logan, apologize to Roman."

Sputtering. " _Do pardon me_? Apologize to—what in String Theory do I have to apologize for?"

"Insulting cartoons. You know how important these things are to Roman."

Vergilius frowned. Cartoons weren't only important to _Roman_ ; they meant everything to Patton, too. Why wasn't he advocating for himself?

"They're inane and ludicrous."

"I'll show you inane and ludicrous! En garde, foul—"

Vergilius launched up and out the door in an instant. He flung himself between Logan and Roman not a second too soon, the _sching_ of Roman's katana still robust in the air. Vergilius slid into place just as Roman settled into stance, his katana held out in front of him—and the blade pressed to Vergilius' breast.

Everyone stilled. Vergilius couldn't feel Logan tense in shock behind him. Roman stared like he couldn't process the scene, astonishment and horror warring in his eyes. Patton, an innocent bystander off to the side, screamed—and also recovered first, smacking the sword out of Roman's hand.

It clattered to the floor. Vergilius' coldblooded terror released and he shoved Roman back hard.

" **What are you trying to do, turn this into the Subconscious? Knock it off!** "

Three sets of dumbfounded eyes settled on Vergilius. He stood before them, shoulders heaving, awaiting judgment—or even a basic response. Even "hello" or "welcome" or "what the fuck are you doing here?" But apparently, Patton's moment of heroism had been all they could muster, because now, all any of them could do was stare.

And stare.

And stare some more.

Just as Vergilius' self-consciousness began to rub his patience thin, Patton—again with the mercifully quick recovery times—redirected his stunned gaze from Vergilius to the open door behind him, now solid and stable and as much a part of the hall as the other three to its right. Roman and Logan followed suit.

Silence reigned. And then even _more_ silence reigned. Vergilius prepared to bolt, until, "You came!" Patton cried, charging forward and flinging his arms around him. "You really came!"

"Uh…"

"You moved in with us! Oh, Anxiety, I'm so happy you decided to trust us!"

 _Us_ was still a kind of triggering sound for Vergilius, and he flinched. "Uh…kinda? I guess? It's more like living in the same apartment building."

Patton wasn't listening, though, and Vergilius wondered if Sides could go deaf, because that frequency of enthusiasm hurt his metaphysical eardrums.

"Welcome to the Conscious Mind most officially, Anxiety," Logan said, tapping him on the shoulder. Aside from startling him out of his skin, it was wasted effort, because Vergilius couldn't see Patton letting go of him before Thomas' next birthday.

Vergilius skin started to crawl, _pressure_ building on all the places Patton touched him. He bit his lip and resisted a whimper. He refused to upset Patton.

"Padre," Roman said neutrally, "let him go."

Patton whined and clung tighter.

"I doubt Anxiety much appreciates being restrained, Patton," Logan pointed out. "It is against his hardwiring."

Vergilius would have shot him a dark look if he could contort his neck like that. Why did physics apply so much more here?

Oh, right. Logan. Duh.

"You're fine, Patton," Vergilius told him even while his skin crawled and he fought the urge to transform into a spider to escape. He awkwardly patted his back. "I know you need hugs or…something."

Patton hesitated. "Are you uncomfortable?"

Vergilius almost denied it, despite the scream building in the back of his throat and the roaches skittering under his flesh, but then he remembered Deceit. The words died in his throat, and he shrugged stiffly instead.

Patton let go. Vergilius couldn't help but be relieved.

"I'm really, really sorry," Patton said earnestly, "but I'm so happy you've settled into your new room. Can I see it?"

"No!" Vergilius cried, lunging in front of his door to bar Patton's way. He didn't know if his room's corruptive power had transferred, but he would risk Patton to find out.

Patton frowned and his eyes watered. "Oh," he said, deflating. "Okay."

Vergilius' gut twisted. He flapped his lips, viscerally aware of Roman's glower just behind Patton. He closed his eyes. _So much for not lying_. "It's just not…not finished yet, Pat," he assured him, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Patton lifted his head. "I'm still…renovating."

Patton immediately brightened. "Oh!" He clasped Vergilius' hand and vibrated in place. "Can I see it when you're done? _Pwease_?" He adopted his Puppy Dog Eyes TM Dad Gaze and Vergilius' fragile willpower shattered like spun glass.

"Sure," he told him.

Roman cleared his throat suddenly and loudly. "Well…welcome and all that." His arms held stiff against his side, his jaw cleaned so tightly, Vergilius could see the outline of the muscles. His hands trembled at his sides.

Vergilius initially took his body language to mean anger—until an unfamiliar memory washed over him in a chilling wave.

_He stood in the middle of Limbo. On the ground in front of him sat a little boy, no older than seven, soaked in sewage water with an out-of-place moustache curling over his lips._

" _What if Thomas just threw the door open and jumped out?" he asked them excitedly. His eyes shined with a multitude of ugly, desaturated colors. Tears cascaded down his cheeks. "Would he bounce? Like a basketball? What if we played a basketball game with human heads and they bled everywhere? That'd make throwing 'em harder. It'd be fun. We should try it, brother!"_

_The boy turned deranged eyes on Vergilius, and that's when Vergilius realized he wasn't Vergilius at all—he was Roman._

_Roman's mouth flapped against his will. He felt sick and dizzy. Someone's hand tightened around his arm and he looked over to see Patton's fearful expression, watching Remus in horror._

" _He's_ bad, _Creativity," he whispered. "He'll hurt Thomas."_

" _We should play a game!" Remus cried. Roman looked at him again. "What if we played jump rope with intestines? Play a game with me, brother!"_

_Roman stared at him. He looked around—Patton's horror, Logan's curiosity. He felt Thomas shudder and hug himself, leaning away from the car door in fear, worried he would listen to the terrible voice in his head telling him to jump. Didn't Mom say something about jumping out of cars at high speeds being deadly? Thomas didn't want to die. He was just a little kid._

" _Brother?"_

" _Creativity?"_

" _I believe they are_ both _Creativity," Logan said, inclining his head at Remus. "We will need a more accurate delineation for both."_

_Thomas' unease grew the more Remus babbled. Roman tried to settle him with thoughts of unicorns, but Thomas didn't want it—it felt too much like the other ugly thoughts tormenting him right then._

Thomas doesn't want me _, Roman thought despairingly—until he realized. No. Thomas didn't want the_ bad one _. He didn't want his evil twin, but he couldn't tell the difference._

_But Roman could save him. He could save them all—because he was a hero._

_Roman whipped out a broadsword and held it up in front of his face. "Begone, foul beast!" he cried in his best imitation of a proper Knight. "You will never show your face here again, lest I cut you down like a weed!"_

_Remus' eyes fractured, and he laughed dementedly. "Hey! Hey, brother, what if you tripped and stabbed yourself, and you bled everywhere and you_ died _and I was all that's left? What if? What if?"_

_His laughter sounded hysterical, even to Roman. Roman held his sword at his throat. "I'm not your brother," he lied, voice shaking. "I said begone."_

_Remus' eyes flashed, and Roman knew he'd lunge any minute now and he'd have to cut him down. Before either could move, though, a hooked, gold cane appeared out of nowhere and tapped the edge of Roman's sword._

" _That will be quite_ necessary _," a scaleless Deceit purred. "I_ can't _take him from here."_

Vergilius gasped and staggered back into the wall.

"Anxiety!"

Vergilius stared at Roman, who scowled. "What are you looking at?"

Vergilius couldn't answer. He didn't know what to make of Roman's memory—or what to think about the Side he thought he already understood so well. Had Roman abandoned Remus in a cold, ruthless dismissal of his own family, or had he made an impossible sacrifice for his center?

Vergilius shut that train of thought down hard. Much farther down that track, he might start seeing parallels between himself and the pastel Creativity, and he really didn't need that crisis of self right now.

Roman shifted anxiously. Vergilius could feel him obsessing over whether to ask if this would be a permanent thing, or what Vergilius planned to do now that he'd moved into the Conscious Mind, and about fifty other things that blurred together after a point. Roman's restlessness grew so much, Vergilius couldn't tell where his ended and Roman's began.

Vergilius hugged his arms to his chest and picked his jacket cuffs. "So…yeah," he said, gulping. "Guess I live here now. Or…something."

"What about your friends?" Roman didn't bother disguising his venom.

Vergilius crushed his eyes shut. "They're not my friends anymore," he murmured. "Not after…"

"It is quite admirable of you to extract yourself from a toxic situation on your own, Anxiety," Logan commended. "I took the liberty of performing research into individuals who face abuse, and the statistics were not in your favor."

" _Logan_!" Patton cried in horror.

Logan frowned. "What? I am complimenting him. Most people do not—"

"What Logan _means_ to say is that we're really happy you're here now, Anxiety," Patton told Vergilius warmly, resting a gentle hand on his arm. Vergilius should have flinched away, but he soothed at the touch.

"Are we?"

Vergilius flinched, and Patton's hand tightened his arm. "Roman…" he warned.

Logan sighed heavily. It bordered on a growl. "Roman, you agreed to this."

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind!"

"This is for Thomas' welfare, Roman," Logan explained, as if to a child. "If Anxiety remains in duress with the Unknowns, Thomas' health suffers. It is in all our best interests Anxiety stays _here_ , where he retains greater control over his surroundings and therefore risks less exposure to anxiety triggers."

Vergilius shrunk inward, drifting back toward his room. Patton's expression crumpled, and his eyes seemed to plead with him: _Don't pull away. We can work this out. Don't shut us out._ His gaze ached so deeply, Vergilius felt it in his soul. He wanted more than anything to comply.

There was just one problem. Vergilius didn't know how to let people in when he knew they'd only hurt him.

"Anxiety belongs with us," Patton said firmly, in the kind of tone that suggested it wasn't up for debate. "He's family."

"Like hell he is!" Roman exploded. "Patton, you're so blinded by your kindness, you refuse to see the fiend in our midst! You're opening our most intimate doors to someone we can't be sure we can trust!"

"Anxiety has proven quite _consistently_ that he is trustworthy, Roman," Logan told him.

" _Has he_?" Roman's face was flushed, his hands flying around without rhyme or reason. His anxiety roared inside Vergilius, but it had transcended language. He didn't think words. He felt feelings—powerful, overwhelming feelings. "When's the last time he agreed with us about something?"

Vergilius sunk to the floor and covered his head. The world carried on around him. He spectated through Roman's eyes instead of his own.

"When is the last time _any_ of us agreed about _anything_?" Logan demanded. "You're so intent on seeing Anxiety as the villain, Roman, that you forget there are varieties to antagonist—and at one point or another, _each of us_ has played the role of antagonist."

Roman sputtered in outrage. "N—"

" _Yes_." Logan stepped forward, into Roman's space, nose to nose with him. "For the center of imagination and creation, Roman, you appear to have forgotten the basic definition of a critical piece of storytelling. All stories, as in life, require conflict. Conflict comes from antagonists—internal or external. When it comes to _personifications of a single man's personality_ , none of the conflict that dominates our existences is external, but considering Thomas' habit of externalizing us mentally to solve his dilemmas, we will address it as external conflict for simplicity.

" _Villains_ are caricatures of evil designed to create conflict by performing evil deeds, but life _rarely_ has room for villains," Logan lectured. "Most conflict humans face are posed by antagonistic forces—obstacles to a certain goal, such as a harmonious life. _Thomas_ seeks a harmonious life, and his regular internal crises represent obstacles in that harmonious life. Therefore, those internal crises _are the conflict_.

"Now, let's review…say, the events since Anxiety joined us as an element of Thomas' online series," Logan continued. "He— _Anxiety itself_ —served as the primary and solitary antagonist in his first episode appearance, yes. After that, Thomas struggled with his resolve to make New Years' resolutions—a crisis we all contributed to in doubting his capabilities in fulfilling his tasks."

Vergilius could feel Roman's emotions shifting, but he didn't know how, and without lifting his head, he couldn't read his expression. He curled in tighter.

"The next true _crisis_ came when Patton and I disagreed on how Thomas should live his life." Logan summoned a notebook with a list and various indented bullet points. Roman's gaze fixed on it, and he read along with his speech. "Anxiety had _nothing_ to do with that whatever, and considering the conflict came from Patton's and my inability to agree on important decisions, that made the two of us antagonists in Thomas' life.

"Do you consider Patton and I villains and fiends, Roman?"

Roman didn't speak. Vergilius could feel the words stick in his throat.

"When Thomas struggled with his work ethic, it inevitably fell to _me_ as the culprit for his lack of productivity, although we _each_ played a critical role in that situation. Anxiety _encouraged_ Thomas' crisis over originality, but need I remind you that _you_ were the one most insistent and obsessed with the idea of creating a wholly original idea, taking up _hours_ of Thomas' time brainstorming a million ideas and immediately discounting them all?"

Vergilius tugged on his collar. He couldn't tell whether Roman or he was the one struggling to breathe, but his lungs didn't want to work, either way.

"When Thomas faced failure at his audition, quite right, Roman, Anxiety was, once again, the antagonist—for the first _true_ time since his first appearance, which had been…" Logan checked his calendar. " _Five months_. After that, the three of us cooperated in harassing Thomas and Patton about performing adequately as adults, and it fell on the four of us to reach a compromise.

"Which brings me to this last time." Logan's voice thinned. "Thomas is prone to ignoring, repressing, and denying things he does not want to think about. He did it with his former romantic relationship—"

Roman and Patton whimpered, and Vergilius crushed his eyes shut.

"—he does it with the parts of himself he dislikes, he does it with every crisis that inevitably culminates in a prolonged internal argument he needs us to help him solve." Logan cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. "Thomas has begun to repress his fears that his friends would leave him, and inevitably, he would have stagnated, or his mental health would have suffered, or he would have fallen short on responsibilities _to_ friends in subconsciously agonizing over how best to stay in touch with them through the changing demands of his life, and he would have paid a tremendous emotional price for it. Anxiety brought that to our attention before _we were even ready to accept it_. Despite his perspective on the matter being terribly skewed, he recognized when Thomas continued to delude himself into false reassurances and he _forced us_ to acknowledge the reality of our situation, even sacrificing the credit he _rightly_ deserved in order for me to claim the inevitable victory."

Logan straightened his back and looked Roman in the eye. "Anxiety stopped Thomas from deluding himself and living in denial. Now, Roman, can you please educate me as to what Side is responsible for Thomas' capacity for denial?"

Roman stared at him. Vergilius forced himself to lift his head to watch Roman's eyes dart around frantically, searching the room and his allies' faces for a hint of understanding or sympathy.

Vergilius knew what he would have given the million times he felt overwhelmed and cornered, just to see _someone_ show him something that didn't feel harsh and grating. He caught Roman's gaze with as much softness as he could manage.

Roman stiffened and stared at him. Vergilius gulped. Several heartbeats passed and Roman's anxiety abruptly and swiftly ended—and not because Vergilius had miraculously soothed him.

"I can't believe this!" he exploded, throwing his arms in the air. He whirled on Patton, pointing at him. Vergilius tensed and prepared to lunge to his defense. "Have you forgotten _everything_ we represent? Everything we fight for?"

"We don't _have_ to fight anymore, Roman," Patton soothed. "Not against Anxiety. We never did. We can just be a _family_ now. And we can all get along and—"

"He's _one of them_ ," Roman hissed. "One of the _cretins_ we— _you_!—banished! To protect Thomas! Don't you _remember_?"

"Anxiety isn't _like them_ , Roman," Patton insisted.

"He _was_ them!"

Vergilius sat there, dumbfounded, while everyone argued about him like he wasn't there. Had it crossed any of their minds to consult _him_ about this? Did it dawn on any of them that he might have his own two cents to say about _his_ situation? Roman bulldozing him made sense—he didn't see him as anything except a manipulative bad guy—but _Patton_? They were arguing about Vergilius, but it wasn't _for_ Vergilius, so all he could do was sit there and watch.

"Because _we_ chased him away!" Patton shrieked. "We made him leave! We made him live with people—"

"We're not—" Logan began to correct, but he couldn't get a word in edgewise.

"—who hurt him! That's _our_ fault, Roman! _Us_! We called Anxiety bad and he got hurt because of it! I won't make that mistake again!"

"So _what_?" Roman spat. "What happens if You-Know-Who shows up tomorrow with tears running down his scales? Are you going to just _accept him_ as some poor wittle misunderstood baby?"

Vergilius choked and he stared at a spot on the wall as a horror movie played out in his mind. Deceit, pitiable in front of Patton, begging for a second chance, and getting his wish. A yellow and black door appearing next to Vergilius' with a snake insignia on the front. Thomas slowly succumbing to his wiles, too subtly to notice at first, until it had consumed his entire life, and all he remembered how to do was lie to get his way, manipulating and hurting everyone in his path.

Vergilius wanted to believe Thomas could never—was inherently better than that—but Deceit existed, and Deceit had danced Vergilius into things he never thought he'd do. He couldn't even remember why Paranoia had stayed with him so long in the first place—if he'd been truly as evil as the rest or just a victim of a terrible situation, like Vergilius.

And honestly, he didn't care; Paranoia was a ghost better left in the grave, and Deceit was a monster better left in the darkness.

Someone slid in beside Vergilius on the wall, but not too close. He glanced over to see Logan, sitting cross-legged beside him. Vergilius didn't know how someone could look professional while sitting on the ground, but he managed it with an obnoxiously neutral grace.

"It isn't personal," Logan assured him. "Roman and Patton are far more civil than Roman and me, but when Roman's pride conflicts with Patton's idea of virtue, there is always an argument—or seven, depending on the seriousness of the moral quandary posed."

"Seven?" Vergilius groaned and slammed the back of his head into the wall. "Kill me."

"Impossible," Logan said immediately. "Unless we kill Thomas, none of us can die."

Vergilius turned his eyes to him. "That's not completely true, though," he said. "Is it?"

Logan's expression flattened into a painful, steely sort of neutrality, shadows playing with his features. "No," he agreed. "I suppose it isn't."

"Anxiety is _one of us_ ," Patton insisted. "He has a room here, so Thomas wants him here, and that's all that matters. That's final."

"Will you not _see sense_ , Padre?" Roman roared. " _Think_ before you forgive! He isn't the misunderstood pariah you take him for!"

Vergilius glared at Roman. Logan sighed heavily.

"He hasn't done _anything_ to hurt us or anyone else!"

"Your kindness is your blindness, Patton! How's _that_ for internal rhyme, Logan? Anxiety is a wolf in sheep's clothing, and you're bearing our throats to him!"

"Thomas chose to work with him, Roman," Logan said, standing. "Whatever your ludicrous misgivings, that is simply a fact, and it is in Thomas' best interest we strive to achieve a balance that includes—"

" _Did_ Thomas choose him?" Roman demanded. "Or did he just _appear_ , time after time, shoving his way in, stirring up trouble, like some sort of…some sort of…of…"

"Spy."

It spilled out before Vergilius could stop it, quiet and level. The room silenced when he spoke. Patton and Roman turned to look at him like they'd forgotten he was there. Logan tilted his head at him, but Vergilius didn't recognize any surprise in his eyes.

 _Figures_ , he thought. Of course Logan would solve it before anyone else.

"Oh, kiddo," Patton said, hurrying over to comfort Vergilius. "Roman didn't mean it like that. He just—"

Vergilius held up a hand to pause Patton, who lurched, bewildered. "No." He swallowed and met Roman's eyes. "The word you're looking for is 'spy.' That's exactly what I was—" Vergilius trailed off and considered his words. "what I was supposed to be."

"What?" Patton's voice was small, breakable, his eyes shattered glass hearts.

Vergilius crushed his eyes shut. "De—the snake one, he chose me because I was the only one Thomas knew about," he confessed. "I was supposed to come in, force him to acknowledge the others, and then…then…"

"Play rough-shot with Thomas' Morality?" Roman said darkly.

Vergilius hung his head in shame and didn't answer.

"But…" Patton shook his head. "No. You wouldn't. Anxiety, tell him you wouldn't."

Vergilius met Patton's eyes, praying the remorse tearing him apart inside translated wholly into his face. "Deceit told me it would—he _swore_ bringing the others here would _help_ Thomas. Make him…make him better. Healthier."

"And you _believed him_?" Roman demanded.

"He was all I knew!" Vergilius screamed, and Roman stumbled back as inky tears spilled down Vergilius' cheeks. "Him and Rage and Remus—they took me when I didn't have anywhere else to go! I had _nothing_ before them! You left me alone in Limbo! Do you have _any idea what that place is like_?"

Patton clapped a hand over his mouth with a gasp. His eyes watered.

Roman shook his head.

"Do you think I'm _proud_ of what I did?" Vergilius gripped his hoodie, bunching the fabric in his hand. "Do you think I'm _happy_ I manipulated Thomas? Do you think I _ever wanted to do this_? Deceit had me convinced it was the only way to help him! _I didn't know a better way_!"

Roman stared at him in dumbfounded, horrified silence. Patton reached forward, as if to soothe him, but Vergilius flinched away and Logan stepped between, shaking his head. Patton choked on a sob and covered his mouth again.

Vergilius shrunk into himself, forcing shuddering breaths through pursed lips. He trembled and released his hoodie, lowering his hand to his side. It shook violently enough to hurt. He should have felt anxious about bearing his soul like this to everyone, but he couldn't summon the energy. Still, he knew he hadn't had the right, so he inhaled deeply and ran damage control.

"Look," he began quietly, "I'm not going to just—just _stand here_ and soapbox about how I didn't fuck this up pretty dramatically. I'm not _that_ stupid."

Logan opened his mouth to object, but Vergilius didn't let him.

"But I want to start over," he said, looking around the room. He poured as much sincerity as would fit in his eyes. "I want to do better and help Thomas and just be…be _good_." Vergilius straightened his back. "That's why I came here. I've cut all ties with them, and I'm not going back. I _promise_. Just—"

Vergilius crushed his eyes shut. Pleading with them like this, he felt raw and vulnerable in the worst way. They had no reason to trust or accept him now, not after what he'd confessed. He couldn't bear to watch their faces turn to disgust.

"Just don't chase me away again," he breathed. "I can't do back there. _Please_ , let me try to be good. I want—" Despite himself, he opened his eyes, sweeping them over a stunned audience. He held Patton's gaze. "I want to be good."

"Oh, kiddo," Patton said, and shoved forward to hug Vergilius tightly around the neck. "Of _course_. You've always been good. You just—"

"No, he hasn't."

Logan screamed in frustration. "Roman, for _Galileo's sake_ —"

"I'm serious." Roman held Vergilius' gaze. "You were _one of them_." He gestured emphatically downward. "You just admitted it. You _spied on us_. For all I know, you still are."

"I sense absolute sincerity from Anxiety," Logan said, adjusting his spectacles. "He is not the embodiment of deception, after all."

"Yeah, but he was _taught_ by it."

Vergilius felt ready to puke black tar again. Roman wouldn't budge; he could feel his anxiety and his desperate commitment to his stance, and Vergilius had no defense. After all, Roman was right—he'd been practically _raised_ by Deceit. What evidence did they have Vergilius meant any of this, that he'd commit himself to this cause, no matter what? Why _should_ they trust him?

"I don't know what to tell you," Vergilius said. "You…you've got a point. I'll admit it. There aren't a lot of great reasons to trust me, but…just…" Vergilius searched for the words and the energy to defend himself, but he'd spent so much in these last few hours, he didn't have any left.

Roman spread his hands. "Well?" It almost sounded like Roman wanted to be proven wrong.

"I want to be good," Vergilius said finally, tiredly, peering at Roman through bleary eyes and messy bangs. "I…I want to be good."

Roman's eyes steeled. "I've wanted a lot of things," he said. "Leading roles. Hit singles. Bestselling novels." Roman's lip quivered. "I haven't gotten any of them."

Vergilius stared at him, and Roman stared back. The tiny window into his emotions Vergilius had moments before had slammed shut, leaving them on opposite sides of a great divide with no bridge in sight. Vergilius didn't retain much hope of fixing this now. He doubted Roman could ever see things from his perspective, or learn to trust him.

But for some insane reason, Vergilius couldn't let it go. "What would it take?" he whispered. He restrained his fear and desperation, steeling his voice as much as he could in hopes Roman would respect it. "To get you to trust me. What would it take?"

Roman held his gaze, and Vergilius thought he could almost see the outline of apology in his eyes. "Your name."

It landed like a thunderclap on Vergilius' ears and a sucker-punch to his solar plexus. A cold, certain understanding fell over Vergilius. _He had chosen his name at a time he still identified with the Unknowns. He'd chosen a suffix that best exemplified that relationship. It sounded like Remus' name. It sounded Unknown._

_Roman's conditional acceptance hinged on Vergilius confessing he had chosen a base identity in direct contradiction to his claims of loyalty to the Known cause._

_Roman would never accept him._

_The tension grew until Patton smashed it with a too-bright laugh. "Oh, Roman, don't be silly!" He sounded mildly hysterical, turning to Vergilius. "He's just kidding around, the kidder. We'd never_ _force you_ _to—"_

"We've always been upfront about our names with each other," Roman said, holding his head high. "When Thomas found out we had them and asked, we told him. No theatrics, no games, no witty comebacks, no nothing. _That's_ what family does. It doesn't keep secrets from each other.

"If you want me to even _start_ trusting you, Anxiety," Roman continued, "if you want me to vouch for you with Thomas, then I need to know your name."

"We chose our names _after_ we had already Ostracized the other Sides, Roman," Logan reminded him. "We have no reason to believe Anxiety even _has_ a name, or really understands that he—"

"I do." Vergilius didn't know why he said it when it only dug his grave deeper. Maybe it was Patton's horrified gasp at the notion that he might not have a name of his own. Maybe he was just a masochist.

Or maybe it was because Roman's request was so simple: his name. Just his name. He already told the others, and they _hadn't_ been the good guys. This should be a million times easier.

But everyone here told Vergilius their names upfront. He hadn't even _asked_ and they'd told him. There was no gatekeeping. There were no games to be played. There was no question if they'd been honest or if they were hiding their _real_ names and deceiving his into confiding his own into them.

Roman _was_ Roman. Patton _was_ Patton. Logan _was_ Logan.

But was Vergilius Vergilius?

" _Well_?" Roman demanded hotly. Vergilius recoiled from the venom in his words. "You know, I'm starting to wonder if you really _chose_ to leave Deceit or if they just got fed up with your bullshit and kicked you out."

" _Roman_!"

Those words crashed through the haze of anxiety and uncertainty like an icy wave. It hit like a sledgehammer, shocked like a bolt of lightning, chilled like a monthlong vacation in a freezer all at once.

" _This is the problem with you, Anxiety! You can't trust anyone, not even your own family! We lost Paranoia for_ you _!"_

Oh God.

Vergilius stared at a single tile on the floor and memorized its pattern until it started to swim through his vision.

Oh God.

He could see Roman's bedazzled high heels shifting around in his periphery.

Oh God.

He could sense Patton's hands hovering over him. He was probably babbling reassurances, but Vergilius couldn't hear over the roar in his ears.

Oh God.

He watched Logan's loafers stomp along the floor to stop toe-to-toe with Roman's heels, which clacked as he stumbled back.

Oh God.

He could see Deceit laughing it up with the others on the other side about how hard it had been to get rid of that annoying, pesky roadblock called Anxiety.

Oh God.

"I didn't mean that," Roman said frantically. Vergilius could feel fear catch fire in Roman's chest, but he felt too numb to care. "That…look, that just slipped out. I didn't think it through."

Vergilius didn't tear his eyes away from that one tile. He could see a million possible tragedies play out on it like a movie screen.

Roman continued trying to make amends. "It's—did we tell you about the collaboration Thomas just scored?" His voice suddenly brightened. "He's working with _Butch Hartman_ to animate, like, five minutes of _us_! We were all gonna brainstorm a few things in the Imagination after breakfast and it…it would mean a lot if you'd join us.

"I mean, obviously, I get if you can't right now. I mean, I don't even know if you'd be able to survive a place like the Imagination. I'd protect you, obviously. I've gotta shield Logan every time he goes in because I guess he's just too boring for magic—"

"Hey!"

"—and I can do that for you, too. You can even turn it into your most emo daydream-y nightmare for a while if you want. My treat. What kinds of things do you like? Emo bands, obviously, but I think those are copyrighted, so we can't really play those in the background of the video, but…I know! Vampires! You like vampires, right? They're just as dark as your soul. And bats, probably. And spiders. You seem like a spider guy. Doesn't he seem like a spider guy, guys?"

"Spiders?" Someone's voice quaked with fear.

" _O_ …kay then. No spiders. But we can do other things. Coffins! Black lace! A cloak! All villains need cloaks!"

"Roman, it is my objective assessment that you are not helping."

"Whatever you want, Anxiety!" Roman's voice was tinged with desperation. "Just say it and—"

"Okay." Vergilius didn't even recognize his own voice. Even in his most drawl-y, bored tones, there'd always been _feeling_ behind his words; there wasn't now. He didn't have any feeling left.

"What?" Roman sounded surprised.

"Okay," Vergilius said again. "I'll go into the Imagination with you."

Roman's Adam's apple bounced. "O…okay?"

"Okay." Vergilius nodded. "Where is it?"

Roman hesitated and gestured. He caught Logan's and Patton's eyes on his way forward. Their expressions looked fraught as they took Vergilius' side. Roman led them to a sparkly, ornate, gothic-style door.

"Ready?" Roman looked back at them.

Logan and Patton glanced at Vergilius. They exchanged another look with each other and Roman. Vergilius ignored them and nodded.

Roman opened the door, and Vergilius stepped through onto a cloud of forgetfulness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill by now. Please accept your virtual stuffed animals and hugs.
> 
> Can you guys guess my favorite Logan line? I'm curious.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vergilius changes his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm going to be very frank and honest. This chapter, especially the beginning, is likely to be very hard to read. If you've recently lost or been separated from a pet, I recommend skipping straight to the third section. I do not kill animals in my work, so I am swearing to you that the spiders are _fine_ and safe and happy, but Vergilius is horribly grief-stricken and prone to thinking the worst, and he will not be reunited with them in this part of the story. If that feels upsetting to you, proceed with caution. The hardest part to read, again, will be the beginning two sections of this chapter, and I will bold future mentions of his spiders for the sake of any readers who are likely to be triggered by that. I _know_ how devastating it is to lose a pet. I didn't just peddle that for the angst fuel; it's symbolic and indicative of Vergilius' mistakes and the path he's wrongly gone down. 
> 
> I'm serious, guys. This chapter is hard and every time I reread it, I start crying. If you are grappling with grief over losing a pet, I really would recommend being _very_ careful. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Losing pets, grief, numbness, panic attacks, Roman is a completely unhelpful asshole, but he's still sympathetic--just dumb
> 
> However, if you all would like to refresh yourselves with the end of Chapter Three before you read this, I promise that would be in your, ahem...most emotionally devastating (but not actually triggering) interests.

"I'm swimming in the smoke / of bridges I have burned. / So, don't apologize. / I'm losing what I don't deserve." ~ "Burning in the Skies" by _Linkin Park_

* * *

* * *

VERGILIUS CAME TO IN HIS ROOM WITH A POST-IT NOTE TAPED TO HIS CHEST and glitter covering his hoodie.

He looked around dazedly. His room looked different: brighter, especially for how dazed and confused Vergilius felt, with fewer cobwebs. He noticed how lackluster they all looked, bereft of the diamond-like shine he had grown used to his fastidious pets maintaining. Dull and dusty and grey and…lifeless.

Vergilius stopped. Lifeless?

No. Oh God, no.

"Charlotte?" he screamed, charging forward as his room bled around him like liquid taffy, shifting between twilit versions of all the spaces in Thomas' house. "Aragog? Anansi? Kumonga?" The walls closed in and pressed against Vergilius' chest. "Guys, knock it off! This isn't funny! I've had a really bad day! _Guys_!"

In desperation, Vergilius slashed his hand through a cobweb. It stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He'd never found the webs uncomfortable before.

Vergilius screamed. " _ **CHARLOTTE**_ **?** "

* * *

In the present, Virgil's tears are colder than ice as they slide down his cheeks, and he stares numbly at the plastic toy in his hand. Brown, with faint black smudges. It almost looks like Anansi in the right lightning, if Virgil is half-blind from tears and desperate to feel kinship with a pet again.

The toy had been a gift from Logan. He never explained why he felt the need. Perhaps he remembered the cobwebs in Virgil's room and thought he might want a plastic toy to complete the aesthetic. Perhaps he noticed how Patton's arachnophobia left Virgil in grief-stricken shambles every time, without fail, no matter how desperately he attempted to hide it. Perhaps he just thought it reminded him of Virgil, so he gave it to him.

Whatever the reason, the gesture had meant worlds. Even though little Char doesn't rest heavy enough in Virgil's palm, even though she isn't warm and doesn't skitter about or drip deadly venom onto the heads of intruders, if Virgil closes his eyes, ignores his function, and _imagines_ , she feels kind of like Charlotte.

Thomas' acceptance is more valuable to him than the companionship of his terrifying pets, but Virgil won't pretend the urge to brave the Subconscious one last time to rescue them hasn't overwhelmed him once or twice. Every time he starts, though—every time he stands in front of the curtain, musters a breath, and pulls it aside—he flashes back to the murderous rage in Rage's eyes, the betrayal in Remus', the cold disappointment blazing in Deceit's. And every time, the curtain falls back into place, he crashes to the floor, and it takes an hour or more for him to calm down and _breathe_.

Even for his precious spider friends, Virgil can't be brave. It sickens him, knowing he's left them behind. If he'd realized they wouldn't relocate with him, he would have risked a few more minutes in the Subconscious to gather them before leaving. He would have headed down with them by his side. Protecting them could have given him the courage to fight Rage, just for a little while, when he was already resolved and determined. He would have done _something_ different, something better.

Instead, he's abandoned them and left them with demons. They're probably dead by now; murdered by Rage, crushed by Deceit's cane. The thought brings a fresh wave of grief crashing over him, and he doubles forward to sob.

God, how did things get so messed up?

* * *

Vergilius sat in pathetic shambles on the floor, sobbing hysterically, covered in cobwebs. They felt like corpses against his skin. He considered flinging himself back into the Subconscious, consequences be damned. Rage would kill him. Deceit would tie him up. Remus would hate him. It wouldn't matter. At least he'd have Charlotte and the others. He didn't know how he was supposed to do this without his babies.

Then someone knocked on the door.

Vergilius shot up and whirled, the alarm cutting through his grief like a hot knife. His room reverberated around him before slamming back to stability, almost like a rubber band after being released. He didn't know who awaited him on the other side, but he knew he couldn't let them see him like this. He couldn't remember what had happened in the Imagination, which a dull part of him had known would happen before going in, but that alone told him he probably hadn't done his plight any favors. Showing weakness now—showing his fragile pieces held together with duct tape and desperation—would only make matters worse.

Vergilius ground the palms of his hand into his cheeks, then snapped. He turned on a mirror summoned in the corner to check himself. One more snap of his fingers, and all evidence of his breakdown vanished, leaving only the typical, dry dark streaks on his cheeks.

Satisfied, Vergilius opened the door just as another series of knocks began, expecting to find either Logan or Patton—probably Patton—come to appease him after the argument.

Instead, he found Roman, who would have easily nailed an audition for the starring role in the hit new musical, _Deer in the Headlights_. He held a bouquet of flowers. For a moment, he just stood there, while Vergilius tried to process what his senses were telling him, until Roman lurched, glancing down as though he'd just remembered he brought flowers. He thrust them toward Vergilius.

Vergilius faltered, pulling his gut in on instinct to soften the blow, but Roman hadn't meant to hit him. The flowers hovered expectantly under Vergilius' nose, and he really tried to make his brain catch up with whatever the hell had just happened. Only after he awkwardly accepted the offering did he realize that all the flowers were already wilted, petals black and brittle. One crunched when Vergilius gripped the base of the bouquet, pieces flaking to flutter deeper into the Halloween-patterned wrapping, out of sight.

Vergilius stared.

"I wanted to apologize," Roman said, like his olive branch wasn't an underhanded slap across the face. "I crossed a serious line before. It wasn't right to go after your—" He hesitated, shifting his jaw back and forth. "Your _family_."

"They're not," Vergilius heard himself whisper, and just like that, he knew.

 _Vergilius_ was the name he'd taken to belong with the Unknowns, in their makeshift family of chaos, anarchy, and anger management issues. They'd been his safe space, even when they weren't. They were familiar and however much they hurt him, however much he feared them, they were still more familiar than anything else.

The anxious Side had shackled himself with the letters _-ius_ to represent a surname, a uniting title that would forever associate him with, at least, Remus, and Deceit had preyed on that. He'd read his relationship with his best friend, the only one he could still afford to trust, and so, he'd chosen _Janus_ to endear himself to their family—to _him_ , to lull him into a false sense of security, so he would confess something so personal, so he could hold it in a vice-grip to keep him in line.

Or maybe Deceit really had chosen the name Janus for the same reasons _he'd_ chosen Vergilius at first. It didn't matter either way.

Because Vergilius wasn't Vergilius. Not anymore.

"What do you mean?" Roman asked, almost like he'd deliberately given him enough time to think it through.

"I mean…" Anxiety—the title still chafes a little, after so long with a name, but he couldn't bear calling himself Vergilius one more time—shook his head. "I'm not one of them anymore." He met Roman's eyes. "Roman, listen, about my name—"

Roman held up a hand. "Forget it," he said. "It was awful of me to try to force you to tell me like that." Anxiety couldn't believe his ears. Roman was _actually_ apologizing? For the right reasons? "Even villains are worthy of respect."

Oh. Right.

He averted his eyes and sighed. "Is that really all I'll ever be to you? Just…a bad guy?" He tried to monitor how much devastation he let into his voice. He didn't need to show Roman how much his words affected him.

"It's what you _are_." Roman sighed heavily. "Look, Anxiety, it's nothing personal. Every story needs a villain, right? That's not an easy role to fill. It takes guts to fill it."

"You don't believe that, do you?" He lifted his eyes to meet his again. "Thomas isn't the main character in an action flick. There doesn't _need_ to be a bad guy."

Roman scoffed. " _You_ don't believe that, do you?" The retort slapped him across the face. "You _left_ a bunch of villains. You _said_ you did it _because_ they were villains."

"That's…that's not…"

"So, they _did_ kick you out?"

"No!"

"Then what?"

"It's just more complicated than that, all right!" He bit back frustrated tears. "There aren't just obvious lines between good and bad here. It's all…fuzzy. I just knew I'd do more good on your side, so…I moved."

"You just contradicted yourself." Roman sighed and dragged a hand down his face. "Okay. Okay, so…you remember Logan's spiel on what an antagonist is?"

He found it strange that Roman would bring up Logan's lecture like it somehow proved his point. "I…yeah?"

"It's the thing that's stopping the hero from completing his or her or their journey, right?" Roman's eyes shined, like he was willing Anxiety to get it.

Anxiety clenched his teeth. "I'm not _stopping_ Thomas from doing anything."

Roman snorted. "Seriously? Do you know the last time Thomas auditioned for something?"

He shrugged. "Since when is that _my_ job?"

"It's not _your_ job, sure, but you're sure making _mine_ a living hell."

Anxiety stopped, expression slackening. His arms fell like inanimate weights to his sides, the dead bouquet crackling as it smacked against his thigh. Withered petals fluttered to the floor. "What are you talking about?"

"Thomas is so terrified of messing up in front of another director that he's skipping out on every audition in the area," Roman told him. "I've had arguments with him. _At length_. He just doesn't see the point in fighting with it because _you_ have him convinced he's only going to fail."

Anxiety shook his head, slowly at first, then faster. His mouth was dry. "No."

"He's being ten times as perfectionist about everything," Roman continued. "I mean, sure, I _am_ a stunning spectacle, and of all the Sides capable of achieving well beyond plausible expectation, it's _me_ , but…Thomas is still just a mortal man. He's wearing himself to the bone trying to be enough for _everyone_. He's hated his creative projects for _weeks_ now. Nothing is good enough. Joan and Talyn and the others are having to suggest most of the ideas that make it to his channel or Twitter because he just can't stand it. Patton is tearing himself apart from guilt because he thinks we're depending on them too much. Logan is going insane because we're not meeting any of our deadlines."

Roman shook his head sadly. "Thomas' dreams are in theater. He wants to write amazing books that captivate millions. He wants to craft spectacular stories. He wants to be the greatest creator in a hundred years. The greatest creator _ever_. And he's capable of it. _We_ are. Or we would be, if you weren't always in the way."

At some point, the bouquet had crashed to the floor. Wilted petals and crunchy leaves had flown everywhere, strewn across the floor around Anxiety's feet, blackened and dead. He snapped them away before Roman noticed and braced against the doorframe as subtly as he could manage with football stadiums roaring in his head, staring at Roman without seeing him.

Someone's hand was on his shoulder. "This really is nothing personal," Roman said. "Not all Sides are created equal. Some are spectacular leaders, some are loyal followers, and some…"

"—are the villains." Anxiety forced himself to meet his eyes. "Are you…are you sure? All of that? Is it…?"

Roman's eyes steeled. "I'm a _hero_ , Anxiety." His voice was razor-edged. "I am Thomas' _hero_. I am the first Side who knows what's best for him. Patton is my compass, Logan is my map, and you are…well, you're my adversary." He sighed heavily. "I'd just rather not fight you. Especially when I know you don't _mean_ to hurt Thomas. I can at least tell that much. It's not like you're _out_ to cause trouble. You just…can't avoid it."

"But…" Anxiety could hardly breathe. "There has to be something I'm doing that's…that's _good_ for Thomas, right?" He looked at him pleadingly through bleary eyes. " _Anything_."

Roman shook his head regretfully. "Maybe…maybe you'll Change," he suggested, like that was something to hope for. Like it wasn't just as horrifying and scarring as a Split. "Evolve to be better for Thomas, you know? I mean, that's really just theoretical, but Logan is _positive_ it's possible, so…maybe." Roman offered him an encouraging, sweet, crooked smile.

He shook his head hopelessly. "I don't…I don't know what to…"

"Just…stay out of the way, okay?"

Roman sincerely looked so remorseful, like it was tearing him up to say these things, which just made them hurt all the more. At least if he'd looked spiteful and victorious, kicking him while he was down, Anxiety could cling to the fragile hope he was wrong, and he _was_ good for Thomas. But Roman looked as devastated as he felt by the idea that he was damned to be bad. All this time, trying to keep Thomas safe, and he'd only ever been in the way.

"Keep your head down," Roman continued. "You can still, you know, hang around, of course. And you're pretty witty when you want to be." Roman smirked. "To be honest, you're way more fun to trade verbal blows with than Logan."

The oceans were back, roaring louder than ever in his eardrums. The world swayed.

"Anxiety, I'm not trying to hurt you." Roman sounded soft and pleading now. "It's a cruel thing to try to shut somebody up. I wouldn't _do_ that."

Except that was exactly what he had done so, so many times before.

"Please, don't…don't make this any worse than it already is. You've still got a seat at the table, of course. Just stop trying to _own_ the whole table."

"I wasn't—"

"Yeah, you were." Roman's tone sharpened again, briefly. "Just keep it to a minimum, all right? Stop trying to hog everything. Stop getting so loud in Thomas' head. Let him actually do the things he _wants_ to do."

Roman didn't understand. He'd _tried_. It wasn't so simple.

"Try to…how's this? Be, like…a flavor. On _some_ things. Like salt. A little bit of salt is so subtle, you don't even notice it, right? Try to be like salt instead of a Side the way Patton, Logan and I are. That way, everyone gets along. You still have a place here, I won't hate seeing your face, and Thomas can _finally_ own that yacht. Oh, and mansion. Oh, and _obviously_ , the horse. Named Maximus. Because _of course_ , Maximus is the best animal sidekick in the entire _Disney_ pantheon. Everyone knows it."

Roman continued droning on about all the things Thomas would be able to achieve without him in the way, but he was only listening with half an ear.

_"Then you've officially outlived your usefulness."_

Oh God. Deceit had been right all along, hadn't he?

"Roman?"

Roman skidded to a stop and looked at him. "Hmm?"

"Can you…? Sorry, but I just…I need to get some sleep. It'll…spare Thomas from more anxiety while I, uh…figure out a good balance." He hoped Roman wouldn't notice the yellow twinge to his eyes.

He didn't. "Oh! Right, yeah, of course. That makes sense. I hardly ever sleep, always coming up with the next great idea, you know, or crafting the perfect dream. Still can't get the hang of lucid dreaming, though." He scowled.

"You'll figure it out." Anxiety's voice sounded wrong against his ears, but again, Roman didn't notice.

He just beamed at him. "Oh! Well, that's actually…surprisingly nice of you, Anxiety. Thank you."

He shrugged.

Roman chuckled quietly. "This is…the first time we've talked without arguing, isn't it?"

Anxiety resisted the urge to point out that it was always Roman causing the arguments.

Roman nodded. "It's…you know, it's kinda cool." He clapped him on the shoulder. "You could be a cool friend, you know that? If we weren't diametrically opposed, of course."

"Of course," he echoed dully.

"Everything seems so much… _calmer_ now. More awesome. You notice? It's like the air is sparkling."

The sparkles were coming off Roman, actually. Apparently, he was so happy with this pleasant turn of events that he was turning the world around him into a magical, twinkly wonderland.

 _Oh, Logan would love this_ , he thought with a dull sort of sarcasm. Then again, Logan would adjust; he always did, somehow. Logan always filled exactly the gaps he needed to fill, when he needed to fill them. Perfect. Adaptable. Helpful.

Patton, too—always bending at just the right degree to comfort Thomas, to give him a sweet pep talk and cheer him up and bring a smile to his face.

Then there was Roman: the impeccably dressed, melodramatic cheerleader who never balked in the face of obstacle or conflict. Roman wouldn't be afraid to storm the Subconscious to save his pet spiders. He wouldn't have forgotten them in the first place.

He was perfect. So were Logan and Patton. They were all perfect. Exactly what Thomas needed, always.

And Anxiety…wasn't.

A calm sort of resignation fell over him. It wasn't cool, it wasn't warm. It wasn't prickly or fuzzy. It was just…calm. Neutral. Peaceful. For the first time maybe ever, he felt at rest, like he finally, _finally_ knew what the right thing to do was.

He smiled at Roman gratefully. "Yeah. Good night, Roman." He moved to close the door.

"'Night, Anxiety. And hey, don't forget." Roman winked. "Everybody loves a villain."

Anxiety held Roman's gaze impassively, face slack, body floaty but heavy at the same time, and closed the door. He turned his back on it and wandered deeper into the room. He shined a cobweb, and in it appeared a familiar name he had almost forgotten.

_VIRGIL_

His namesake, he remembered—at least, the anglicized version of it he had chosen not to take, instead turning to closest part of his true, Roman name: Vergilius.

He will learn—sooner than he expected, far later than he should have—that Vergilius had been the poet's clan name, not his personal one. _Publius_ was his personal name; the same name _he_ had immediately discounted, as soon as he saw it. Ironic, he will think, that he unwittingly chose a name to set himself apart that belonged to a _group_ , not a person.

But _Virgil_ —something about that had been seductive when he first laid eyes on it, and it was seductive now. It bore so little resemblance to the name he had initially chosen. No suffix, shackling him to his dark, cruel, vile roots, and even the beginning: _vir-_ instead of _ver-._ He doesn't know, even now, if those are actually prefixes, but he chooses to think of them as such, anyway.

He imagined what they would mean, if they were: _ver-_ , meaning _evil_ , and then _vir-_ , meaning _good_. _Ver_ \- represented his darker roots, and he hated it, because he hated them. He'd abandoned them for a reason. But _vir-..._ that was what he had become. He had made peace with his duty to Thomas over his debt to the Unknowns, and now, this was his lot.

And what a glorious lot it was.

Anxiety reached out to touch the name on the web and it dissolved against his fingers, absorbing through his skin. It washed over him like an ice bucket, like a warm shower after a wintery walk, and like neither of those things, all at the same time.

 _Virgil_ , he pondered. Neither _-on_ , _-an_ , or _-us_. Belonging to no family at all, because the family had been stripped away from it.

"Virgil," Anxiety said dully. A fitting name by any account.

Virgil sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter, I received a rather apt comment from _withoutsides (singing without words)_ saying how impressive it that Roman is able to stuff both feet in his mouth and keep talking. I do think Roman just grew another foot for the express purpose of stuffing _that_ in his mouth, too.
> 
> So...at least we can all feel vindicated in calling Vergilius Virgil again?
> 
> Come get your stuffed animals and tissues.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil needs a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend briefly refreshing your guys' memory of the fourth section in Chapter 15, because there's a callback here that loses its impact without the memory. I maybe shouldn't have used it here, but what better place to experiment with writing techniques than fanfiction?
> 
> Also, I get excited about a life event that is the reason behind my early upload today. If you're icked out by assigned female at birth monthly bodily functions, you probably wanna skip the end notes. I just wanted to share a really cool life event with you guys because...just...it means a lot. I'm bolding that part so you guys don't have to read it if you don't want.
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> Content Warnings: Manipulation, mention of suicide; Virgil ducks out here at the end (I don't feel like that's a spoiler when we all knew it was coming) and that's the closest to suicide a Side gets, and it's briefly called out as such here
> 
> If you guys want to theorize, pay close attention to this chapter. There are a _lot_ of hints about what's to come that won't pay off until the second part (being drafted surprisingly quickly now). I pay very close attention to the details here, as well, just so you know. This chapter is just...a minefield of foreshadowing.

"In this farewell, / there's no blood; / there's no alibi. / 'Cuz I've drawn regret from the truth of a thousand lies. / So let mercy come / and wash away what I've done." ~ "What I've Done" by _Linkin Park_

* * *

* * *

VIRGIL KNEW WHAT HE HAD TO DO, but he didn't know how to do it.

After all, how many years had it been since Virgil evolved into a constant force on Thomas' life? How long had he uprooted his hopes and dreams? How long had he hurt his productivity and killed his happiest moments at conception?

How long had the Mindscape permitted Virgil to hurt his center and done nothing to stop it?

Roman left no doubt about it; Virgil had to remove himself from the equation. He had to cut himself off from Thomas in some irreversible way—force a Fade or at least disappear behind a wall he couldn't reach him through. Otherwise, things would continue to worsen for him and the others, and it would be all Virgil's fault for not sacrificing himself when he had the chance.

But as noble as Virgil's intentions were, he also knew his chances of securing allies were slim.

Roman might help him if he hadn't married himself to the idea that he was some morally-upstanding hero above killing his enemies. If Virgil could convince Logan of the inherent _logic_ in his removal, he wouldn't bog himself down in silly constraints of right and wrong; but Logan had also, _somehow_ , determined via "rational thought" that Virgil was, in fact, just another part of the team, and therefore, Roman's grievances were unfounded and stupid. Virgil suspected he found Roman's grievances unfounded and stupid because he found _Roman_ unfounded and stupid, and if that didn't reek of Dangerous Blind Spot, Virgil didn't know what did.

And Patton, of course, was just off the table. Just imagining his heartbreak when Virgil tried to explain how he had to do this almost killed his resolve; he didn't think for a second he could survive seeing it in real time.

But Virgil definitely needed help. So…where did that leave him?

The answer literally bumped into him climbing up the stairs with his nose stuffed in a paperback.

"Oh!" Logan stumbled and crashed into the railing, grunting when the realistic constraints he'd placed on the Conscious Mind backfired in a blooming bruise on his bony forearm. His paperback tumbled down a few steps behind him. "I'm terribly sorry, Anxiety," he babbled. "I didn't see you there. I—"

Virgil had been spying on the common area from the stairwell in hopes of spotting something or someone he could use to execute his plan, but now, he bent down to scoop up Logan's paperback. He examined the cover: austere, black, minimal design and with a very familiar title. " _Gone Girl_?" Virgil asked, handing it back to Logan. "Haven't you probably already read that, like, ten times?"

"Nine," Logan said, cradling the book against his chest defensively. "It's critical for Thomas' deductive reasoning and—"

"You've read it nine times." Virgil couldn't suppress a smile at Logan's blush. The Knowns were all repressed dumbasses, but at least they were _endearing_ repressed dumbasses.

Logan snapped the book away and fixed his tie, clearing his throat. "You never know how familiar things can teach you new lessons."

Virgil's expression flattened. "How philosophical of you," he said dryly.

Logan tensed and watched him cautiously, like a wild animal. He averted his eyes, glancing up the stairwell. "If you would excuse me, I have to—"

"Wait." Virgil held out a hand to halt him, only to immediately curl inward again. "I…I didn't mean that. Look, I'm just still a little frazzled. Things didn't…end well." He tugged on his sleeves.

Logan's expression remained as difficult to read as ever. "I am sorry to hear that," he said.

Virgil hung his head.

"I…" Logan sighed. "I am adept at many things, Anxiety, but sentiment has never been one of them. I understand your experiences with the Unknowns must have been the closest to traumatic Sides can experience, and I find it unfortunate that you had to endure that, and I am grateful that you are now somewhere you feel more comfortable."

It didn't miss Virgil's notice how Logan avoided demonizing any particular player in this mess. He didn't know how to feel about that.

Virgil met Logan's eyes, trying to think of something to say—before it dawned on him where Logan had been headed before they collided.

"Shit!" Virgil stumbled back. "You were—I just—I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—I'm sorry. You can go. I'm sorry. Of course, I got in the way. I always get in the way. I'm sorry. You can go. I'm talking too much, aren't I? I'm sorry."

Logan blinked harshly and stared at him. "Stop apologizing."

Virgil ducked his head. "I'm sorry."

Logan sucked in a sharp breath. "Anxiety, when I tell you to stop apologizing, it is in your best interest to do so."

"I'm—" Virgil bit it back. "Right. Roger…that. Sir. Logan. Sir."

Logan's eyes fluttered. "Is this an abnormally high amount of anxiety for you?"

Considering Virgil's gut wasn't rioting or trying to rip him apart from the inside, he considered that a definitive _no_. "This is actually pretty tame, actually."

"You said 'actually' twice," Logan pointed out. "That was redundant."

"Sor—"

Logan gave him a stern look.

"—did cupcakes."

Logan blinked again—this time longer, like he was fighting glue on his eyelashes to pull them apart. "Sordid cupcakes?" he echoed.

Virgil hunched his shoulders. "It was the first thing I could think of."

Logan didn't say anything, watching him closely. He felt like a frog on a science table. He could feel the scalpel coming. He loosened his collar as sweat soaked his hoodie.

"Name me five things you can see right now," Logan said suddenly.

Virgil stared at him.

Logan arched an eyebrow. "Anxiety, when is it ever a good idea to _not_ do what the embodiment of rational thought tells you to?"

Virgil hesitated, but listed off the five sights. Logan walked him through the remainder of the exercise. He hadn't felt overly anxious to start, but it did settle his nerves.

Virgil scratched under his collar. "Uh…thanks."

Logan nodded stiffly. "I took it upon myself to research and study a variety of grounding techniques for anxiety. Should you need it again, you know where to find me." He turned to continue up the stairwell.

The idea smacked Virgil across the face with all the force of a derailed train. Even if Logan didn't _agree_ with his plan, he was still the best Side to show him how to execute it. Virgil needed to pull this off for Thomas, and he needed someone to be the brains—even if they were the unwitting brains—of the operation.

"Logan, wait!" Virgil jogged up ahead of him.

Logan stopped, blinking harshly. "Is something the matter, Anxiety?"

Virgil froze and his mind reeled for something to say. "I…you know, I've never read _Gone Girl,_ " he admitted. "Could you…could I borrow it?"

Logan's eyes glinted. "I suppose," he said without emotion, but his fingers betrayed him, tapping restlessly against the railing of the stairwell.

"We could talk about it," Virgil continued. "After. And maybe you could show me another book I really should have read by now." He paused. "I like _Dante's Inferno_."

Logan's eyes twinkled. His face twitched and strained with the effort to suppress his smile. He snapped his fingers and handed Virgil _Gone Girl_. "That sounds amicable," he said. "And I will refresh my memory of _Dante's Inferno_. Have you read the other two installments of _The Divine Comedy_?"

Virgil frowned deeply. "Has Thomas?"

Logan's eyes sparkled. "No, but with two Sides advocating for it, it's only a matter of time."

Virgil laughed and tucked the book under his arm. "It's a date." He turned to head back to his room and pulled up short. "Not a date." He spun to face Logan. "Not—that's—"

"I am not Roman's twin, Anxiety," Logan said. "I know what you meant. I expect you to finish _Gone Girl_ by May 25."

Virgil chuckled. "May 25 it is."

* * *

Virgil didn't know what he had expected when he agreed to a book club with Logan, but it hadn't been to _actually_ have a good time. And it _certainly_ hadn't been to see the stoic center of reasoning smile.

Logan clamped down hard on a puff of laughter before it could develop into more than a forceful exhale, cheeks pinkening. He cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. "Yes, well, Dante's…proclivities for fainting spells aside, _Inferno_ is a fascinating look into the mind of a devout Christian man who—"

"—wrote one of the most famous cliché bits of fanfiction in all history?" Virgil smirked, and Logan strangled another laugh.

"You could…say it that way." He smoothed his tie. "Would you like to select another book to read?"

They'd decided on convening the book club in Logan's room—a decision Virgil appreciated a lot, considering how much quieter his anxious thoughts were in here—and the conversation had gone so well that Virgil had forgotten why he'd suggested they meet here in the first place. Virgil hadn't cased the place very well, too busy mocking the character Dante, fearing for psychopathic exes, and talking books with the first Side to engage with Virgil as something other than a misguided child or sinister villain—or gullible punching bag.

Virgil took to perusing Logan's bookshelves, minimal though they looked compared to the unapologetic bookworm they belonged to. Logan had kept every story Thomas had ever engaged with in perfect condition—every fiction novel, every self-help book, every true story, every biography Thomas had ever been seduced into purchasing from a bookstore or borrowing from the library. He'd preserved his textbooks from the University of Florida. He'd even, by the looks of it, borrowed from Roman's wealth of creativity to fit the puzzle pieces together for books Thomas had heard a lot about but never read. Every single hardback, paperback, graphic novel, and textbook Thomas had ever laid eyes on had a well-loved home here.

For a man who prided himself on a lack of sentiment, Logan was maybe the _most_ sentimental of them all.

The rest of Logan's room, however, appeared painfully _colorless_. Slate grey walls, a metal desk flanked by large metal cabinets. A sleek computer monitor had been built into the wall behind Virgil; it appeared touch-activated. A printer sat on another metal desk below it. A similar setup existed in every version of the room, except for his bedroom, in which Logan also had a closet and a sleek cot—the one splash of color in the entire place with its dark blue bedspread.

Logan also had a gym setup he explained as a futile attempt to get Thomas to take better care of himself, but being the only Side campaigning for regular exercise, he hadn't gotten much of anywhere. Virgil almost felt bad enough to agree to do cardio with him when he heard that.

Virgil knew, somewhere in this infinite expanse of knowledge, Logan had to have something he could use tucked away, but without a map telling him how to navigate Logan's room, he didn't like his chances of finding it on his own.

"So, uh…" Virgil lingered on the contemporary YA books. Thomas had read a lot of those just so he could project a gay life experience onto the extremely straight romantic leads. "You know, there is one thing I'm really curious about, but I kinda doubt I'm gonna find it in any, like… _real_ book." Virgil chuckled uneasily.

Logan perked up. "You would be surprised. There is a wealth of information for a variety of topics out there."

"Well, yeah, but this is kinda specific to…you know… _us_." Virgil faced Logan. "How much, like… _research_ have you done into how things work, here? Like…if there're any rules governing, you know…Sides."

Logan's eyes sparkled like little stars and he shifted forward. "You're interested in my Mindscape research?"

When Logan looked that excited about it, Virgil couldn't help _actual_ curiosity. He smiled and nodded. "Yeah."

Logan hurried to the leftmost cabinet by his desk when his room looked closest to Thomas' guest bedroom, sans a spare bed, and opened one of the metal drawers. Despite its design, it slid open without a sound. Inside were neat, color-coded dividers: red, light blue, dark blue, yellow, green, orange and dark grey. The dark blue section appeared the most robust with the yellow section the most minimal.

"Of course, I document every observation I make about the various Sides," Logan explained eagerly. "Observation is, of course, the first step in the scientific method. My experiments would have a smaller margin of error if the others cooperated with them, of course, but I make do with what is available to me as any good scientist."

Virgil suppressed a laugh at Logan's excitability. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.

"If you would consent, I could better understand your function," Logan offered. "It might help you control how much of your influence affects Thomas, and give us strong, evidentiary backing to our counterpoints when Roman accuses of you of antagonism."

Virgil tensed and stared at Logan, his words echoing kind of like the clangs of a metal desk in his ears. Logan watched him expectantly.

" _I am Thomas' hero,"_ Roman had said. _"Patton is my compass, Logan is my map, and you…well, you're my adversary."_

Virgil was wasting time, he realized—bonding with Logan over books and trying to give him a friend he could turn to. He needed to remove himself from this equation sooner rather than later, and he needed to learn the math from Logan in order to do it.

"Sure," Virgil said, knowing full and well what a boldfaced lie that was. "What about things like…well…" Virgil chewed his lip. "What about Fades?"

Logan blinked harshly. "Fades?"

A familiar, silky voice purred in Virgil's ear. _What,_ exactly, _do you think you're doing?_

Any other time, Virgil would have launched fifty feet into the air, hissed, and scanned every square inch of the room for Deceit's hidey-hole—but in Logan's room, his mind remained calm enough to recognize that he had just told an outright lie, which meant Deceit could hear what Logan and he were discussing. He had simply used that mental connection to speak directly to Virgil.

So, logically, Virgil ignored him and forged ahead.

"Yeah," Virgil told Logan. "Look, I know…I know it's pretty morbid." He kicked back against the wall with his arms crossed. "But when you're the embodiment of Thomas' existential crises and fear of death, you get curious about this stuff. It's the closest to death a Side can experience, so…I'm curious."

 _When I taught you how to lie, Vergilius,_ Deceit began coolly, _I didn't expect you to use my lessons to learn how to commit pseudo-suicide._

 _My name isn't Vergilius anymore,_ Virgil snapped back at him. _Now shut up._

_You're making a mistake._

_Which means I'm doing the exact right thing. Great! Thanks for letting me know. Goodbye._

Virgil slammed the mental door on Deceit's face. He could still overhear everything he was doing, but he couldn't interfere. Logan had put it perfectly when he tried to convince Virgil to move here the first time: the Unknowns couldn't reach Virgil in the Conscious Mind, so Deceit couldn't stop him from doing what had to be done.

"Well…" Logan pulled out a midnight black file and opened it. For a moment, Virgil failed to process what the neat, orderly script down the center was. He stared, mind churning around it once, twice, five times, until the shock finally dissipated enough for him to comprehend it.

_In Loving Memory of:_

_Hunger_

_Upset_

_Pain_

_Guilt_

_Friendship_

_Whimsy_

_Memory_

_Mischief_

"You remembered them," Virgil murmured disbelievingly, reaching out to caress the names.

Logan nodded. "I am certain this is an incomplete list, but I operated from my best, educated guesses on which Simple Sides Faded and which Integrated with us. Of course, even I'm not—" Logan's voice caught for a moment. "—even I'm not infallible. Any Simple Sides that formed elsewhere in the Mindscape and never interacted with me, or probably most of the ones that relocated to the Subconscious with Deceit after the Moral Purges aren't on this list. Thomas' early development was a chaotic time, if you recall—wait." Logan stopped and considered Virgil with a head tilt disturbingly reminiscent of Deceit. "Did you even exist back then?"

Virgil stiffened. He stared down at Logan's desk, and he could swear he saw that damned memory reflected in it: himself, a small black bat, flying around in a panic while soon-to-be Deceit chased him with murder glinting in his mismatched eyes.

"Anxiety?"

Virgil lifted his gaze to meet Logan's. "Do you remember Fear?"

"The narcoleptic basis for Thomas' terror and survival instinct as a child?" Logan said. "Of course."

Virgil waited. A strange, constant tapping sound reached his ears, and Logan twitched, looking away, as if distracted by the noise. He yanked himself back to the present with almost vicious intent, frowning at Virgil—until his expression relaxed with the light of understanding.

Logan sucked in a breath and nodded. "I see." He averted his eyes. "We never did get the chance to apologize," he began. "For Ostracizing you. We were young. We realized our mistake too late."

"Fear made do," Virgil told him, pulling out another black folder to peruse it. It was on unaltered Mindscape physics, which just meant it homed about a million nonsense equations and notes scribbled in the margins, trying and failing to assign predictability to the laws of their universe. Virgil would have laughed at it any other time.

"Fear?" Logan tilted his head. "Why do you refer to yourself in the third person?"

Virgil tensed. The folder crinkled in his grip. "Fear was a different Side," he said. "Just like the other."

Logan snapped his fingers. A piece of dark grey paper appeared, and Logan wrote Virgil's confession on it in type-perfect white scrawl and more official language. He tucked it away in a folder in the dark grey section.

The tapping sounds hadn't stopped. Virgil ached to mention it, to draw attention before it drove him nuts, but Logan acted like he couldn't hear it. Virgil wondered if he was going crazy. As it turned out, Logan's room only _muffled_ his anxious thoughts; it didn't silence them entirely. Virgil held his tongue rather than humiliate himself sounding like a lunatic.

"I suppose that proves my theory about Changes," Logan said measurably.

"Yeah." Virgil stared at where the paper had been put away. "Yeah, I guess it does."

"Is it like a Split or an Excision?"

Virgil stared at him in surprise.

"Traumatic." Logan met his eyes. "After all, if you are familiar with Thomas' developing mind forcibly Changing you without your consent…it would explain your reaction to this recent dilemma. Thomas titled the video: 'Making Some Changes.'"

Virgil crushed his eyes shut and clutched his hoodie around his body, clinging to the constancy of his form. He hunched his shoulders and stayed like that a moment.

"I will take that as a 'yes,'" Logan said. "I will inform the others not to mention it again around you."

Virgil forced himself to meet Logan's eyes. "What's an Excision?" he asked.

Logan lurched and the drawer slammed shut. Virgil launched back. "For your sake," Logan said measurably, "I think it better I don't tell you." He met Virgil's eyes. "Don't mention it around Patton—or, should you ever interact with him again, Rage."

A persistent tapping sound Virgil hadn't even registered stopped abruptly. Logan turned and pulled his dresser shut tighter, summoning a combination lock to hang on the handles.

Virgil stared. "What—?"

"Now, we were discussing Fades," Logan said.

Virgil still had questions about the closet, and the tapping, but he also didn't have the guts to push for them. He looked back at the sheet representing a graveyard for forgotten Sides. He flashed back to Deceit's expression, all those years ago, as a miserable, greyscale clown Faded in his grasp.

Virgil owed Deceit nothing, and he'd never really known the Faded Sides he'd mourned. He didn't even remember most of their names. But he remembered one. "Unhappiness," he said.

Logan faltered. "What?"

"One of the ones that Faded in the Subconscious." Virgil met his eyes. "I don't remember them all, but…Unhappiness."

Logan's expression shifted with unreadable seriousness, and he nodded, jotting that down, as well. "Any others?"

Virgil shook his head. "Not yet." He took a deep breath. "I'll let you know if that changes."

Logan replacing the file in the cabinet felt a disturbing amount like lowering a body into the ground.

* * *

Logan wasn't stupid. He sensed Virgil's unsettling preoccupation with the concept of a Side's death and permanent removal and clamped down hard on that train of thought. He just got Virgil's motivations a little sideways.

"Whatever nuisance the Unknowns can cause, they've still survived into Thomas' adulthood, meaning they are critical parts of his matured mind," he said. "Removing them would have devastating consequences. I expect you to respect that, Anxiety; regardless of your history with them, Thomas is more important."

So, of course, Virgil didn't listen.

Patton had stolen Logan to the common area to help him make a clearheaded pros and cons list of whether or not Thomas should keep no fewer than a dozen stuffed animals left over from his childhood now that he desperately needed to declutter his garage. Knowing Patton's sentimentality and profound indecisiveness, that could take anywhere from an hour to two.

Virgil seized his chance.

No one noticed him slip inside Logan's room and quietly shut the door. If Logan appeared, demanding to know why he had come here without permission, Virgil had another book he'd borrowed to offer as an alibi, but the foresight proved needless, because he had free reign of the place.

He started with the filing cabinets he had already seen Logan reference a dozen times when telling Virgil about his Sides' research. He scanned the pure black section as quickly as he could, fixating especially on the research on Fades. The file was organized like one of those WebMD pages online.

_**What is a Fade?** _

> _A Fade is what occurs to a superfluous Side instead of Integration where they cease to exist in the Mind—_

Virgil tore his eyes away to the next section. His heart yearned to hammer in his chest, but Logan's room calmed him enough to read on, unhindered by his function.

_**What causes a Fade?** _

> _A Fade occurs when a Side becomes superfluous to Thomas, usually because another Side has evolved or can evolve to fulfill their function without necessitating their continued existence. Fades are correlated with feelings of insecurity, as a Fading Side may be continuously outvoted in Thomas' affairs, or Thomas may even make choices in spite of them._
> 
> _Fades are not to be confused with Ostracizations, because those Sides are still critical to Thomas' development, despite being undesirable, and their role cannot be suitably filled by any other Side._

Virgil scowled. Still nothing useful. He read on.

_**Symptoms:** _

  * _Desaturated or lackluster appearance_
  * _Lethargy_
  * _Uncharacteristic energy levels (may be mania or depression, depending on the Side's previous function)_
  * _Profound feelings of insecurity_
  * _Decreased aptitude at their specific function_ 1
    * _[1. Whimsy stopped being able to add "fantastical flair" to ideas.]_
  * _Extreme feelings of attachment or hatred toward the Side replacing them_



Virgil concluded that he definitely didn't have any of those symptoms. He flipped through the rest of the Fade's research, but found nothing useful. He thumbed through the rest of the black section in that drawer, but only found something based on experiments Logan had apparently been doing on whether a Side could defy and even evolve their function consciously and deliberately. The research didn't look favorable.

Virgil checked the other drawers and cabinets but found nothing that even stood a chance at being useful. That damned tapping sound was back, nagging at his ear, but he ignored it. He couldn't afford to get sidetracked.

Unless…

An insane idea occurred to Virgil. What if, when Logan needed a certain piece of information in this vast expanse of a room, the proper file made sounds like tapping until he tracked it down?

Virgil followed the noise to the closet, still padlocked. He tried a couple combinations to no avail before it occurred to him to try Sherlock Holmes' birthday, which Logan had once excitedly told him the fans agreed upon as January 6, 1854. When Virgil tried _1-6-18,_ the lock popped open. He ripped the closet open, tapping loudening, to find an underwhelming sight.

The only things there were a full-length mirror with an orange, black and blue frame and a silver safe. The safe wouldn't open without something specific to Logan Virgil couldn't even begin to deduce in the time he had, so he was forced to move on with his curiosity about the tapping and the contents of the safe unsated.

After tearing Logan's room apart, he finally found what he'd been looking for in a neurological research section of a drawer in the bathroom, of all places.

> _Prolonged periods of high stress flood the bloodstream with cortisol, the stress hormone, which can temporarily damage the brain's plasticity, leading to a condition known as dissociative, or psychogenic, amnesia_ _1_ _. While this functions primarily on memory banks, it stands to reason that, should a Side be associated with such a period, Thomas could cut off their influence subconsciously as a—_

The doorknob clicked and Virgil whirled to see it turn and start to open. It abruptly stopped.

" _No thank you_ , Patton," Logan said on the other side, clearly frustrated. "I have work to do— _important, critical work_." Logan sighed heavily and properly closed the door again.

Virgil shoved the file back where he found it. In any other place, his anxiety would have skyrocketed to such a point that he knocked things over or froze in his desperation to escape in time, but in Logan's room, he could just move quickly and efficiently, putting things back where he found them while Patton kept Logan busy a few minutes longer.

"Yes, it is very socially acceptable of you—I mean, _kind_ —to offer me cookies, but I will have—Patton, honestly, please just—" There was a muffled grunt, and then Logan said through what sounded like a mouthful of cookie, " _Did you fill these with Crofter's_?"

Virgil quickly closed the closet and replaced the combination lock. The tapping sound muffled when he did.

" _Nnng_ —thank you, Patton. I'll just take these—I _really do have work to do._ "

Logan threw the door open just as Virgil sunk out. He never saw him.

* * *

Virgil panicked as soon as he reappeared in his room.

The only way to remove his influence from Thomas was to _temporarily worsen it_? While in Logan's room, the ramifications of that couldn't hit him, but now, it bowled him over. He gripped his hair, gasping for air, pacing around in circles while his lonely, spider-less room warped around him.

There had to be another way. Maybe he should wait and search Logan's room again; there were so many files; there had to be a better one _somewhere_.

But then he saw it: Thomas, hunched over his laptop while an email thread with Butch Hartman dimmed on the screen. Virgil could feel how tired he was, how much he just wanted to take a break and de-stress. He was overwhelmed.

Because of Virgil.

Virgil's resolve strengthened and he took a deep breath, elongating his spine. He held his head high and focused, hard.

If cortisol caused this dissociative amnesia, which only temporarily damaged the brain's plasticity, and cortisol was the stress hormone, then that meant _Virgil_ was cortisol, didn't it? The same way he was adrenaline, and the fight or flight or freeze instinct. So maybe he didn't have to flood Thomas' system to make this work.

Maybe he could just channel that part of himself straight to the source, bypassing all the red tape, and…

Thomas loosened his collar and let out a slow breath as the anxiety built inside him. Virgil almost balked—until he remembered how much more harm Thomas would suffer if he stuck around long-term. He took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry, Thomas," he breathed, and crushed his eyes shut.

 _Focus_ , he told himself. _Shield Thomas from as much as you can. Keep it brief. Just get out before you can cause any more harm_.

Someone was thundering against Virgil's door. "Anxiety!" It was Roman. "Anxiety, dammit, you're doing it again! You need to stop!"

 _I can't yet_ , he thought pleadingly toward him. _Just a little longer_.

"I don't think he can help it, kiddo." Patton, distressed. Lighter knocks now. "Anxiety? Roman, go get Logan. He needs to help him calm down."

"When has he _ever_ been good at that?"

"Roman, please?"

Grumbling. Stomping.

"Just hang on, Anxiety. Roman's getting Logan. You'll be okay."

Virgil clenched his fist, locked his jaw, and summoned a deep, centering breath. Maybe dissociative amnesia wasn't the answer. Logan's notes were theoretical, and theories could be proven wrong. He just had to find a way to block his influence from reaching Thomas.

Ever.

Again.

He imagined solid, reinforced steel walls around his room: the floor, the ceiling, the walls. He imagined them encasing it, encasing _him_ , like an impenetrable bank vault. No one could get in. Nothing could get out.

Patton screamed. "Anxi—"

The steel barricade cut off the last two syllables.

Virgil laughed giddily. It was _working_. He pictured the recesses of Thomas' mind; not even the Subconscious, but farther back. Hadn't somebody said humans only used ten percent of their brain? He focused on the other ninety percent; the shadows in the dusty corners no one ventured to. The space between the Subconscious and Conscious Mind, where, once upon a time, Fear had made his home, and then he dug deeper. He had to do this. He _could_ do it.

Virgil refused to be the villain for the rest of his existence. He remembered from Logan's notes that, if he went long enough not affecting Thomas, Thomas' system would rule him as superfluous and flush him out. He'd Fade. Once upon a time, that had been Virgil's greatest fear.

Now, it was their only hope.

Then he heard a silky-smooth, admonishing voice echo throughout his room. _Vergilius, you fool_ , Deceit hissed. _This_ isn't _a terrible idea. Stop_.

Virgil scoffed. "I told you," he whispered. "My name isn't Vergilius anymore, Deceit, and the more you tell me to stop, the more I know I'm doing the right thing."

 _Vergil_ —!

He locked him out with fifty padlocks and a voice activated system. At least, that's what he imagined, and so far, _imagining_ had done wonders for him.

He imagined his influence waning, lessening, pulling away from Thomas. He imagined his room drifting in an insulated bubble; shielding his center from everything evil about him.

"I won't be bad," he breathed. " _I am not one of them_."

The steel walls reinforced. The bubble floated up and away. Darkness engulfed him. He felt lighter than air—and heavier than lead.

Virgil slowly sunk to the ground, fingers choking locks of hair at the roots. It stung, but even that pain couldn't anchor him—not as the tsunamis of dammed anxiety flooded him, his room, his _everything_. He drowned in his own influence.

A dull, bitter, ironic voice spoke up in the back of his head and pointed out that this plan hadn't just shielded Thomas; Virgil's bubble of isolation worked both ways. Not only had he cut the other Sides off from his influence; he'd cut _himself_ off from _theirs._

Which meant no more imagining. No more lies to soothe the anxiety, or intrusive thoughts to re-focus on, or anger to drown out the roar of fear. No logic to cut through his spirals and remind him of reality. No more _feeling_ anything that wasn't complete, crushing, all-consuming _terror._

_If you scream and no one hears, do you even make a sound?_

Virgil never made a sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else now wants to punch Virgil _really hard in the teeth_? Who else kinda wants to hug Logan? Who else might adopt a nerdy bookworm logical Side? _*raises hand*_
> 
> Also, Virgil's bit about us only using ten percent of our brains is crap. It only worked because he wasn't using science to duck out. We use all of our brains, just different parts at different times.
> 
> There are actually no sources needed for this chapter. Most of it was on my world-building, and the bit about actual science is just...something I knew going on. I paraphrased my information, double-checked myself quickly, and went from there. Logan paraphrased his research, too, because that's just a better way to learn things.
> 
> Virgil-shaped punching bags, tissues and stuffed animals available at the communal table on your way out. Please angst responsibly. 
> 
> **I'm posting this early because _*sharp intake of breath*_ I'M GOING TO THE DOCTOR TO GET MY IMPLANT SO I DON'T HAVE A MENSTRAL CYCLE ANYMORE! GENDER EUPHORIA, HERE I COME, BABY!**
> 
> **Sorry. I'm very, very excited about this. I'm not able to start HRT, but I _can_ at least stop the bloody dysphoric hell week.**
> 
> **For those of you who are icked out by this...sorry. I'm just really excited and you guys are kinda the best, so I'm excited to tell you. It's a big deal for it. It's the first time I'm getting any gender-affirming medical transition stuff done, so it means a lot.**
> 
> **If anyone is confused, I'm trans and AFAB. These things are a big deal for me.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, the Known Sides find Virgil. 1/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AA time, baby!
> 
> The first part of this chapter is almost like a horror sequence. Virgil is alone with his function, and it's a nasty time. Other than that, the only real trigger warnings are the ones found in AA Part 2 itself. Also, this is only part one of three, so Virgil doesn't stop being a dumbass in this chapter. So sorry. You're gonna continue wanting to slap him for a little while.

"I remember each flash as time began to blur. / Like a startling sign that fate had finally found me. / And your voice was all I heard: / that I get what I deserve." ~ "New Divide" by _Linkin Park_

* * *

* * *

VIRGIL FORGOT ALL MEASURE OF TIME.

Drifting through abject nothingness, in an impenetrable bubble of isolation, with no anchor to Thomas or any other Side, he could have ducked out three decades or three seconds ago, and he wouldn't know the difference. All he knew was the texture of his hair as he gripped and pulled at it, the rawness of his throat as he screamed into infinity, the crushing weight of _alone, alone, forever alone, unloved and alone, unwanted and alone, alone, alone, alone, aLONE, A_ _ **LONE, ALONE, ALO**_ —

Virgil would have sacrificed everything for an anchor, for a lighthouse, for anything to tell him anything but _alone, alone, stupid, bad, villain, alone, deserve it, alone_ , but he was adrift in a sea of anxiety and fear and paranoia and he was he sure he'd made it impossible for any other Sides to reach him.

But Deceit always knew more than he did; could he have predicted this? He'd heard his voice before it was finished. What if Deceit was here, watching him, cackling through his torment, dagger poised to sink between his shoulder blades—?

Virgil whirled with a strangled scream and scrambled back ( _like a crab, like a sad, pathetic crab who hurts people and can't keep a family and doesn't belong, bad, evil, pathetic crab_ ) into a wall, choking and gasping and tearing at his hoodie and _oh God, make it stop, someone make it stop, alone, worthless, unloved, alone_ —

Cobwebs covered him like the corpses of his babies, how could he abandon them, they needed him how could he do it he's evil vile cruel twisted villain villain villain _vill_ —

And then _something_ washed over him like ice water, grabbed ahold of him and steadied him in his terrible sea, and he was cold and he was scared but he was also sad, so very sad, with a heaviness in his limbs and tears stinging his eyes, and he imagined what the others were doing without him now. Thomas was nailing an audition, maybe, or coasting with straight A's through university, or spending some overdue time just enjoying time with his friends, going to parties, _living his life_ , all with a smile on his face, without Virgil.

But was he? Had Virgil really thought this through? What if there were consequences to this decision? Consequences he hadn't foreseen? Logan had _told him_ something like this could be risky, could have devastating ramifications for Thomas. What if he'd just fucked everything up and now Thomas was useless? Catatonic? Could he _function_ without his Anxiety? Had Virgil even _considered that_?

Wait. How could Virgil even _think_ these things? He'd cut himself off from every other Side. Their influence, their thought processes; it shouldn't be able to _reach him_. He shouldn't be able to picture Thomas' better life. He shouldn't be able to feel sad and grieve for what he'd lost. He shouldn't be able to _reason_ about it. They were gone. _He_ was gone.

Unless…

Oh shit.

" _ **WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE**_ **?** " Virgil roared, reappearing in what looked like the anxiety-themed living room, where Logan, Patton, Roman, and—oh God, _Thomas_ —were all standing around, gawking.

Well, they _were_ until he showed up. Then they started screaming. Patton wailed about "them moving" while pointing at the spider-patterned curtains, which sent a shock of regret shooting through Virgil like a fast-acting drug.

Thomas recovered first. "Anxie— _Anxiety_? Oh my God, I'm so happy to see you!" He stopped and blinked harshly. "Wait, that's weird."

" **You all just screamed in unison upon seeing me,** " Virgil snarled, then made a conscious effort to rein in his Tempest Tongue. He needed to get them out of here before they could find out if his Conscious Room still functioned like the old one.

"I'm sorry," Logan said. "You just…you do this thing where you just…" He gestured vaguely. " _Appear_."

Virgil snarled. "Whatever. You all need to get out. _Now_."

"Wait…" Thomas looked down at himself, and Virgil realized he looked a lot like him, in a baggy hoodie. When he pulled it down, his hair was a terrifying rat's nest that made even Virgil wince. "What _am_ I wearing? What _is_ my hair?"

Roman practically melted onto the floor. "Welcome back, Thomas! Now grab a damn hair brush, would you?"

Virgil realized, with a start, that he could see Thomas get up and fetch a hairbrush to tame his errant hairs. A stab of fear consumed him. His room reverberated and darkened.

"You all need to get out of here. _Now_." Thunder rolled overhead.

"Thanks, Roman," Thomas said, completely ignoring Virgil. "Look, Anxiety." He turned to face him. "You don't _understand_. I couldn't feel your influence at _all_."

"Yeah, I know!" Virgil snapped. Their influences and his ran together, mingling and mixing and choking him out. They weren't safe here. He just knew it. He took a deep breath and reminded himself he didn't have the right to get angry about this; he earned this punishment through consistent failures. He calmed down. "It's because I decided to duck out."

"Quack?" Patton ventured hopefully.

"Look, Thomas, you've all got to—"

" _Duck out_?"

"Quack quack?"

"What do you _mean_ duck out?" Still Thomas.

"Quack quack qu—"

Roman wrinkled his nose. "That's a thing you can do?" 

Virgil looked around the room. Hopelessness rose like a tide in his chest. His mind filled with a half-forgotten horror.

_Deceit hesitated, considering, then faced Vergilius, who felt an almost overwhelming tug on his gut while he forced himself to meet his eyes. Something looked off about them._

_Deceit didn't respond for a moment before scoffing and flicking his wrist. "Oh, do whatever you want. I don't care." But when Deceit looked at him, Vergilius could see familiar dark grey streaks texturizing unnaturally over his bright yellow scales._

Deceit had already been corrupted—as corrupted as Virgil—and that moment still rang with immeasurable terror, looking back. How much worse would it be to watch every good aspect of Thomas succumb to the same fate? Lost. Forever. Because of Virgil.

"Look," Virgil said, trying not to panic, which was easier than it should have been with the others _right there,_ "I know how much you all hate listening to me, but _just this once_ —"

"Did you use dissociative amnesia?"

It landed like a thunderclap on Virgil's eardrums, cold and measured and even and oh, oh-so-terrible. Virgil turned, belly heavy with viscous dread, to look at Logan, to meet his steely eyes, his stuff uncanny features. Sometimes, he really did look like an android; like the perfect-and-thus-imperfect imitation of human life, programmed according to its many functions, uncannily mimicking human emotion. Except no android programmed to _mimic_ human emotion would deny it so steadfastly.

And besides, there was no faking the orange fire blazing behind Logan's brown eyes.

"Logan?" Thomas, Patton and Roman all looked confused, frowning toward their friend.

Virgil gulped back a devastating wave of guilt. He summoned his nerve and answered, "No." He rolled his shoulders back, stood tall despite the guilt hot and leaden, swelling inside him. "It didn't work."

Virgil could see the familiar fires of betrayal raging behind Logan's eyes. He wondered how many curses perched on the tip of his tongue. Would Virgil even understand half of them? They were probably too intelligent to hit him the way they were intended. Then again, maybe they wouldn't need to, because Virgil had a feeling this look really _could_ kill.

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Thomas' head whipped between them like they were embroiled in a vicious tennis match.

Virgil faced him again. "I removed myself from the equation," he simplified, because Thomas didn't need to get bogged down in the nuances of _how_. "Quit. Decided it wasn't worth it anymore."

" _What_?"

Pandemonium broke out, between Patton screaming about the curtains and gushing about how sorry he was Virgil felt that way and Roman shrieking outrage like this hadn't been his idea from the start. Virgil recoiled from them and glanced over at Logan, who was still perfectly neutral. Even his self-control couldn't hide the orange glow to his eyes—a glow, Virgil thought, that sometimes seemed more common than his natural eye color.

And here Virgil had been, thinking Deceit was the biggest threat to Logan. How could he ever warn him against this, though? _Now_?

The answer was, he couldn't, so he focused on the matter at hand: getting everyone out of his room before they found out just how much had changed in Virgil's move. "It didn't seem like I was wanted," Virgil said, cutting through the mayhem. "You all made that _perfectly_ clear every time I showed up."

Patton gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth. "I'm so—"

"Not you, Patton," Virgil said quickly. "You…" _You're kind. You're hilarious. You're a ray of sunshine I know I should hate but love anyway. You're Thomas' compass and our first line of defense against terrifying demons and Remus. You were the only reason I believed I could have a home in the Conscious Mind. You gave me enough hope to get out when I would have rotted in my fear and doubt and never seen the light. You're my only friend and I love you._ "You're a funny guy."

Patton clasped his hands in front of him and swayed. "I love my dark, strange son."

Virgil's eyes prickled with tears he never let show.

"I…well…" Roman cast his eyes and arms around like he was searching for something to say. Virgil rolled his eyes and looked at him. "Surely you know we were just preparing ourselves for the worst possible—" His eyes bulged out of his head and he choked hard. "Okay, I can rephrase that. We were just tensing up because we knew something bad—"

Virgil threw his arm in the air and turned away, scoffing. "Honestly, Princey—"

Roman stomped his foot and snarled in frustration. "I just mean—look, you're never any fun and—"

"Roman, _shut up_ ," Thomas snapped, and his wholesome, white-and-red Creativity withered under his tone like a flower under too much sun.

"Look, I'm the creative side," Roman snapped. "Not the fluffy, perky, kind word-sy side." He shifted fitfully; his hand held prettily in front of him. Except it wasn't that pretty, and Roman didn't look or sound as flamboyant as usual.

Then it hit him. _This is my fault. I know it's my fault and now Thomas is a mess who doesn't even fear death and it's all my fault and I have to fix this and am I even a hero if he's not the villain and what does that mean for me and Remus and what_ —?

"Someone would think that the creative side could find a kinder way to talk to others," Logan snapped back at him, leaning to one side and tapping his foot. _He used my research to do this and that makes it my fault so I'm the reason this is hurting Thomas. If I don't fix this, no one can. Am I even worthy of the title Logic if I can't solve a basic dilemma? Is Patton more valuable than me? He would have recognized the signs before it was too late. He would have stopped Anxiety. How could I fail? How can Logic fail?_

"You'd think the smart side would be able to mind his own business!" _Logan knows this is my fault they all know it's my fault they'll hate me I'm the hero and they're going to hate me how can they hate me it's just like the fans why aren't I the fan-favorite how can it be Anxiety he's not even brave he's just angsty and weird and dark and always getting in the way they're gonna hate me for this I just know it I'm supposed to be the hero and I failed them I failed everyone I'm still failing_ —

"Now, kiddos, there's no need to fight!" Patton's voice edged with hysteria. "Why don't we just apologize and shake hands? Shake hands! Now!" _My whole family is falling apart. How didn't I see this coming? Anxiety needed me, he's like my son and he needed me and I did nothing. I knew I should have invited him to dinner sooner. There was more I could have done, why didn't I do it? He needed me. Think, you stupid, pathetic waste of a fucking Side, think!_

Well, that answered that question, Virgil thought. _Shit_.

"It's real sweet of you all to visit," Virgil gritted out, heart racing, "but if I wanted to stand around being insulted, I would have shown up in-person like I usually do. So, let's just face facts. You're better off without me." And then, with Virgil's persona fractured but intact, he screeched, "Now **GET OUT**!"

Thomas and the others didn't so much as balk. Their thoughts grew steadily louder. Virgil didn't want to find out how long it would take before his room corrupted them permanently. Virgil already embodied Thomas' mental illness. He didn't want to be the reason he shut down entirely.

"Not without you," Thomas insisted. "Look, Anxiety, you're wrong about me being better off without you. I'm _not_."

"Oh, really?"

Before Virgil could shoot into a dissertation on all the ways he hurt Thomas just by existing, Logan jumped in. "Exactly!" _Hurry up and fix this you stupid waste of a fucking_ — "I don't think any of us took into account how much you factor into Thomas' decision-making."

Virgil caught Roman falter and stare at Logan out of the corner of his eye, but he was too busy questioning his sanity. "If you mean _not_ making a decision," Virgil said dubiously, "then sure."

"Logan is right!" Thomas objected.

"Without you, Anxiety, Thomas was behaving like…like a…a…" Logan snapped his fingers, casting about for the word. "Just a…a big, bumbling couch potato man."

Thomas gasped in outrage, and Patton launched in. "We already know that Thomas listening to me too much is a problem." He bounced restlessly on his heels. "Roman, too. Probably even Logan." _I have to fix this. How could I let it get like this? I have to_ —

Logan sucked in a sharp breath and held up a finger. "Easy." _What if he's right? I'm Logic and I'm more harm than good. I can't do my job right. I can't do anything right. How could I be so careless and let this happen? I was supposed to protect Thomas._

"We all were," Virgil blurted out in answer to Logan. "Are. You are, I were. Was." Virgil clutched the side of his head.

Thomas frowned at him. "What?"

Virgil sighed and hunched his shoulders, shaking his head. "Forget it. And…look, I can't say it's not nice to see you all groveling, but…you were _right_ to not want me around, Thomas." He looked at him, deep into his eyes, into his mind, into his soul, and pled with him to understand and _let go_. "I always aimed to protect you, but lately…"

_I'm the hero. Me. Not him. He doesn't protect, I do. If I'm not the hero then who is? Someone has to be the hero. It's me. It has to be me. It's—_

_How could you let this happen to your family, you worthless—?_

_Am I ever enough?_

_What am I if I'm not the hero?_

Virgil shook their thoughts off and tried to focus. "Lately..." Such a simple, vague word. It could mean a million things. It could mean since he forsook the Unknowns in favor of a virtuous existence in the Conscious Mind. It could mean when he first acknowledged how much worse the Unknowns _were_ than Thomas' chosen trio. When he first sensed the wrongness of his place in the Subconscious. When he Changed, and nothing— _nothing_ —was ever the same again.

_Be the hero, you stupid, dumb hurtful—_

"Lately, all I've been doing it holding you back." Virgil searched Thomas' eyes for some flicker of understanding, of recognition, because he _knew_. He'd experienced it. He had to know how much Virgil hurt him. Intentions didn't matter; least of all for Sides.

 _Just be the—_ "If your only goal is to protect, then why do you act like a dark and stormy night all the time?" Roman demanded, then winced and stomped his foot again. _Now you fucked it up again some hero you_ —

"Roman," Thomas warned.

"What? I'm just saying he's a creepy cookie! You're a creepy cookie, Anxiety. You're like an oatmeal raisin cookie that's primarily composed of raisins. A raisin oatmeal cookie. No one wants—"

"Pump the brakes, Princey!"

Roman's thoughts were already drowning out the other two by a football stadium now, cycling around heroism and his role and what it meant if Virgil wasn't the antagonist. Luckily for him, he'd never have to find out. "I'm sorry," Roman said. "I'm just feeling a little, uh…extra- _passionate_ here."

"When did you apply eyeshadow?" Patton asked suddenly.

"I didn't!" Roman's hand darted up to his face. "But does it look okay? A prince has got to slay." _Cover it up cover it up cover it_ —

Patton was right. The circles under Logan's, Patton's and Roman's eyes had darkened drastically—Roman's, worst of all. Virgil hadn't kept track of time; he didn't know how long it had taken Deceit to succumb to his room's effects, or if these guys had corrupted faster.

All he knew, all that mattered, was the fact that in very little time, all that would remain of Thomas was _him_.

Oh God, how had this gone _so wrong_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have stuffed animals and pillows to scream into this time.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil listens. 2/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Virgil finally stops being a dumbass this chapter! So things to look forward to!
> 
> Warnings: I guess a panic attack? Not really. Again, only as many warnings as go into AA.

"Hope dangles on a string / like a slow-spinning redemption." ~ "Vindicated" by _Dashboard Confessionals_

* * *

* * *

"YOU NEED TO _**GO**_!" Vergilius roared.

Virgil yanked on his collar and struggled to breathe. He leaned into Logan's influence and tried to figure out what to do.

Okay, he thought. So, clearly, just scaring them wouldn't chase them out. He needed a different tactic, and he had to think of it fast and execute it faster.

If fear tactics wouldn't work, then what other options did he have? Well, so far, he hadn't had the hardest time reasoning—or imagining or feelings things that weren't strictly fear-based. Okay, what options did that open up for him? He could paint a vivid picture of what exactly would happen to them if they stayed here, but he had a terrible feeling that would just make them _more_ concerned about him. Empathizing with them wouldn't do any good.

That left one thing—the obvious solution. Logic.

 _I'm sorry, Logan,_ he thought, gut twisting with a new wave of guilt. _It's for your own good._

Vergilius met Thomas' eyes. "When's the last time you auditioned for another production?"

Thomas lurched in alarm, then opened his mouth to answer.

"Or hung out with your friends for something that wasn't work-related? Or did anything just for fun?" Virgil gestured emphatically at Roman. "Roman is your personal pride and all your aspirations and hopes and dreams. He doesn't hate me for no reason. I overdid it. I—"

"You could never overdo it!" Patton cried. Tears poured down his cheeks now. "I don't care how dark your clothes are, because you still shine— _bright like a diamond_!"

"Patton?" Thomas asked, a hint of anxiety in his voice.

 _Shit shit shit shit shit_ …

Virgil couldn't be sure whose thoughts belonged to who anymore. They'd all run together in an indecipherable, bitter flurry. Pretty soon, they'd all lose themselves to the din of anxiety. Virgil would consume Thomas whole, until there wasn't even a Virgil left.

"Anxiety, you're a natural fight-or-flight reflex," Logan interrupted. "That's what you're instilled in humans to act as."

Virgil faltered, shifting to face him. His thoughts sounded like whispers next to Patton's, and they were inaudible compared to Roman's. Even his eyeshadow had avoided the worst of it, light dustings of grey rather than harsh streaks of charcoal, like on the others'. Somehow— _miraculously_ —Logan had kept the worst of his anxiety at bay. Virgil could have wept from relief. The others still had a lighthouse at the harbor, illuminating the way out of their fear and turmoil—if they'd only _move toward it._

But then Virgil paused to consider Logan's words. _"You're a natural fight-or-flight reflex. That's what you're instilled in humans to act as."_

And then, for some reason, another's reassurance—sickly sweet and smooth and steeped in untrustworthiness—filtered through the haze. _"It's not like worrying if you're good for Thomas is part of your makeup or anything, but you're_ not _a natural survival instinct instilled in him to keep him out of danger."_

But…no. Deceit couldn't have been right.

…could he have?

"And in some people," Logan continued, "you're a little heightened. But what's a little extra height, right? It just means you're tall enough to ride every ride at Disneyland. Unless you're too tall and you get decapitated on It's a Small—"

" _Logan_ ," Virgil warned, watching in horror as the bags underneath his eyes darkened. _Dammit, not Logan, too._

"—World. Sorry about that little tangent, I am _reeling_ right now." _Rein it in. Focus. You're Logic. So,_ act like it. "The point is, too much of anything can be counterproductive."

Virgil shook his head. "Yeah, sure, whatever, but for _me_ —"

"Hold on!" Logan cried. _Get it out. Get it done. Running out of time. Hurry_. "Yes, Thomas, I am about to provide more exposition. Bear with me." _He hates everything I am. He hates me. He hates what I do how I act how I dress_ — "The relationship between productivity and anxiety can be expressed on this curve." Logan summoned a massive poster board with an upside-down U on it. Under the horizontal line, the x-axis, if Virgil remembered right, was scrawled _ANXIETY_. Beside the vertical, the y-axis, was scribbled _PRODUCTIVITY_. "It's named after the psychologists, R. M. Yerkes and J. D. Dodson. They—"

"Get on with it, Calculator Watch!" Roman exploded.

Patton ducked and covered. "Yay, loud noises!"

"Okay, up here is where you want to be." Logan circled the apex of the curve vigorously. "This is the optimum degree of constructive tension. Yes! Too much anxiety pushes us to this side of the curve and performance is hindered—" He traced the line as it curved downward to the right. "—which is less than ideal, but without you at all, Thomas is not just on this more relaxed, laid-back side of the graph, which is also not ideal when you're trying to get things done." Again, he traced it, this time as it descended toward the left. "He's all the way down _here_." He circled the crux of the graph, where both values were at absolute zero.

Virgil stared, mind processing Logan's lecture piece by piece, and then as a whole, and shook his head dumbly. It didn't make any sense. How could he, Anxiety, the quintessential _bad guy_ of this story, be… _good_?

"By the horn of a unicorn, that _was_ going somewhere!" Roman laughed sharply, hysterically. _I'm a prince. I have to look like a prince, be a—wait, do I look like a prince right now? What about my hair?_ Roman started frantically smoothing out his hair, his clothes, his everything, while he spoke. "I normally would have fallen asleep, but I am not feeling like my fabulous self right now. I am bitterly, jittery, and not very glittery."

"Understatement, Princey," Virgil muttered, worried, then recovered to stare at the graph again, something lodged in his throat. "But…with me, aren't you just always on the other side of that…graph thing?"

"Yerkes–Dodson curve," Logan reminded him sharply.

Virgil recoiled a little. "Yeah…that."

And then Thomas said the craziest thing of his life. "There's ways that I can work on that, but I'd rather work on it _with_ you than without you at all."

Virgil scoffed disbelievingly. Sure, Thomas wanted to work _with_ him. That's what he had done every time he screamed or complained about him being there, every time he shut him down and out, every time he blatantly favored one of the others over him, even when Virgil had something helpful to say. Why he let his other Sides take credit for the few of Virgil's suggestions he _did_ like. Why he let them put him down every chance they got and had ever since Virgil became Known.

"How?" Virgil demanded, lips pressed thin, expression stretched taut with years of bitterness and resentment and pain.

Thomas' expression softened, and Virgil could have sworn he recognized guilt shining in his eyes. "I just need to make you feel listened to," he said. Virgil stopped. "You're like—like a really important alarm clock. Sure, the noise can be sudden and a little unpleasant sometimes—" Virgil winced. "—but it's important for me to recognize the concern, register it, and carry on, changing my actions, if necessary."

Virgil could only shake his head at him. After all this time, all this pain, all this struggle, confining himself to neat little boxes in a desperate bid to become something Thomas wanted, after _finally_ giving up his dream of finding a seat at the table…Thomas _couldn't_ accept him now.

Because if he did…what had it all been for?

"You're what made Thomas double and triple-check things he needed to study before taking tests," Logan said. "And—"

"Also, you're that feeling of tingliness after achieving something he didn't think was possible!" Patton exclaimed desperately.

Logan launched back seven feet. "E equals MC scared!"

Virgil stared. Logan shouldn't have been able to leap that far. He'd figured out forever ago that Logan's strict application of physics to the Conscious Mind didn't permit walls to suddenly jump back multiple feet—or for _Sides_ to jump back that far. And his eyebags now looked almost as black as the others'.

Uh-oh.

"Sorry, was that too loud?" Patton asked nervously. _I scared him how could I scare him he's my family why am I such a failure I'm a terrible dad._ Patton's face twisted up in dread and guilt. "I was worried I wouldn't get another chance to speak and I wanted to share my thoughts before I forgot it."

 _Stupid you should just shut up and go away you're always causing trouble you can't fix anything you can't_ — Roman's thoughts had worsened to a deafening roar trying its best to drown the others' out. Virgil couldn't make out _words_ or even ideas anymore. For all he knew, they'd already lost Roman to the sea of anxiety.

Virgil fought tears.

"In small doses," Thomas softly began, "you're what pressures me to get out of bed. To get moving and doing stuff." He smiled, and for a moment, Virgil forgot his dread enough to relish it. "I'm lucky to have you the way that I do."

Virgil had grown exceedingly familiar with being "overwhelmed by emotion." He'd experienced it more times than he cared to think about—but always in negative ways, in losses of controls he loathed every second of.

This was no different. The emotions clogged his throat, burned behind his eyes, torched through his entire being. They threatened to engulf him and wash him away with the tide.

And yet, somehow, at the time, it felt completely different.

It felt like hope.

Until that hope flattened under the boot of reality. _"Do you know the last time Thomas auditioned for something?"_

Virgil searched the room. He studied Thomas' expression. He studied Logan's and Patton's. They all ached with sincerity, with desperation, maybe with the fragile threads of hope—hope Virgil didn't want to crush, but knew he had to.

Roman had said it himself. Thomas' dreams were in theater, performance. Virgil had always done his best to accommodate that, no matter how much it pained him. He isolated, insulated, shut himself down and out, reined everything in to make sure it all went well, shielded Thomas from the myriad of worst-case scenarios driving him mad; or he shut down, shut out, sat and watched from a million miles away, barely able to _nudge_ his host any one direction.

But if Roman was right, Virgil had failed with that compromise. If Roman was right, Roman meant everything to Thomas—his hopes, dreams, aspirations, his very career—and Virgil stood in direct opposition to that. If Roman was right, all these pretty words were just empty platitudes, and it was only a matter of time before they returned to form—with Virgil the bad guy everyone couldn't wait to be rid of—and Virgil would have to painstakingly remove himself again.

He couldn't do that a second time. He'd barely done it the first. He wasn't strong enough.

Virgil sighed in resignation. "I mean, it's cool to see you all trying to be helpful," he said, and he meant it. Even if this all had been for nothing, the few things they'd said made Virgil feel like something other than broken. He could never thank them enough for that. "At least…most—"

"Anxiety, you're—"

Virgil snapped his head up to stare at Roman. Didn't he understand? He'd already won. Virgil wouldn't waste his energy vying for his place in the light when the Side in Shining Armor hated him.

But then Virgil saw the look on his face—the softness, the regret, the gentility—and he paused despite himself. Even as a part of him braced for disappointment, for another round of bitter rejection, for Roman to put him back in his place, one final time...Virgil let himself listen.

"You're what pushes Thomas to rehearse and rehearse before performances," Roman said finally, as if he had just found the words. "You are that nervousness that he feels right before going on stage, but just as he does…" Roman took a deep breath and met Virgil's eyes. "You ease up. You let his excitement and passion for performance take over." Roman nodded—in acceptance, in resignation, in…relief? "I think that's as good a sign as any that you're willing to work as a team and you make us…better."

Virgil couldn't do anything but stare. He couldn't believe his ears. He couldn't believe his eyes. He couldn't believe the subsiding roar of Roman's thoughts, the burst of clarity washing over them both. He couldn't believe Roman accepted him.

Roman accepted him.

 _Roman accepted him_.

Virgil could go home.

But then all hell broke loose.

"Was that good?" Roman exploded, all shades of Extra coming out a mottled mess of fear, anxiety, and insecurity as he tore at his hair. " _Did I do good_?"

"I'm gonna cry." Patton _was_ crying. "I just don't want to lose any of you."

"Yerkes–Dodson!" Logan chaotically scribbled all over his graph.

"Uh-oh," Virgil said calmly. He shouldn't have been calm, not with all their thoughts washing over him like this, but even still, for the first time in his existence, Virgil felt…tranquil. Centered.

Safe.

"What's going on?" Thomas whirled, looking at all his Sides in horror. He must not have noticed their deteriorating states before, too worried about Virgil.

Virgil knew he shouldn't feel happy that Thomas had for once prioritized his well-being over the other Sides, but…he couldn't help it. He had to admit it was a nice change of pace. He did feel a tinge of fear about telling Thomas what his room had done, but it passed almost before it began. He finally knew what he had to do.

Maybe—just maybe—he had known it all along.

"These guys ha **ve been in this corner of your mind too long.** " Virgil's Tempest Tongue tended toward _extremely negative_ , even at the best of times. It had always been a tool to overwhelm the other Sides and force Thomas to listen to him in a crisis. For once, nothing about that was a bad thing. " **It's corrupting them,** " Virgil continued. " **All their primary functions are now beginning to work to push you far over to the other side of that curve.** "

Virgil realized, a little dully and without much surprise, that Logan and Patton were both so corrupted, Virgil had taken over their purviews. That explained how he was able to console Thomas while remaining calm and logical.

Virgil didn't know where Roman fit in in the din roaring about his head. He didn't care. All he cared about was getting everyone out and going home.

Home.

Thomas swiveled in place. "What do we do?" He started hyperventilating. "What's happening to them?"

" **Thomas, breathe,** " Virgil consoled. " **You can do this. We just have to get them out.** "

Except Virgil had barricaded himself behind fifty psychological firewalls, hadn't he? _Out_ was never intended to be an option—but Thomas had burst his way in. He could burst his way back out.

" **Remember everything you've learned,** " he instructed. " **Breathe in for four seconds.** "

Thomas hesitated, still frantic, still overwhelmed, but Virgil did what he had always done to some extent: he acted as a buffer against the worst of the anxiety. He sheltered him. Thomas took a deep breath, then nodded and complied.

" **Now hold for seven.** " Thomas obeyed. " **And out for eight.** " The crushing weight around them began to lessen. " **Good. Keep going. You've got it.** "

Thomas persisted: one more rep, two, three, and then they were sinking. Virgil caught himself before he could get overexcited. They weren't out of the woods yet.

" **Almost there.** " He had never comforted his host before. He liked the feeling. " **A little more.** "

The ground dropped out from under Virgil, and he finally broke through to the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And from here, it's all uphill! Well, until.
> 
> This chapter is a big one I'd like your reactions and criticisms and everything on. I like to refer to chapters like this as the "dreaded everything-comes-together" chapters, where you have to somehow resolve a multitude of plot threads all at once and make it satisfying. It's one of the, if not _the_ , hardest task for any storyteller to pull off, especially because messing it up means your audience remembers you--and _not_ in a good way. Have you ever watched a TV show finale or read a book that made you _angry_? That's a lack of a satisfying ending hijacking your lizard brain. 
> 
> An added limitation to this is that I'm operating from a preexisting script. I also wonder if I should have just combined all the AA chapters together, but that's several thousand words long and I know how annoying it can be for me to get cut off in the middle of a long update and lose my place, so I tried to avoid longer updates. Let me know your guys' input. I really appreciate it.
> 
> Also, it's not really until...oh, chapter twenty-eight that the angst makes a resurgence? Maybe a little later. You get quiet reminders, sure, but nothing concerted. This fic _ends_ on an angsty note, of course, because this is me we're talking about, but you guys get a nice breather. Lots of time to just enjoy the gaggle being the gaggle and bonding. Happy times!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil takes a chance. 3/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this should have just been straight fluff, but because this is me, your heart will hurt just a little. I bolded a small section where Patton does his thing about spider-curtains and unintentionally hurts Virgil, so if you have any recent pet loss in your life, skip the bolded. You won't understand one tiny flashback line later on in the chapter, but it doesn't massively hinder the reading experience any, I promise.
> 
> We're on the home stretch, guys. Almost there. I hope you like this nice hurt/comfort kinda chapter.

"I can forgive and be forgiven / by learning to love with a heart wide open." ~ "I'll Be Okay" by _Nothing More_

* * *

* * *

THE ONLY DAMPENER ON VIRGIL'S ACCEPTANCE PARADE WAS THE FACT HE'D FORGOTTEN JUST HOW DAMN BRIGHT THE CONSCIOUS MIND WAS.

" _Son of a bitch_ ," he howled, clamping his hands over his eyes and crashing into the banister. Too much time in the darkness of his room must have trashed his desensitization, because the glare hurt his eyes as much as it had the first time.

He could hear the others hissing from pain, too, so apparently quality time in darkness threw all Sides off, even the brightest ones. Through bleary vision, Virgil made out Thomas lowering himself onto the couch—in reality and in his mental safe space. Virgil couldn't say as he blamed him.

Once everyone had recovered, Virgil glared around the room, aiming for a disapprovingly dark tone when he spoke. "That was a really risky thing you guys did." It came out mystified.

Thomas laughed. "I'm pretty sure that if you were with us from the start, you'd have kept us from doing that in the first place."

Virgil cracked a smile despite himself. "Being anxious about the idea of growing more anxious?" he pondered, then nodded aggressively. "Yeah, that sounds like me."

Meanwhile, Roman stared at Virgil like he was the two-headed messiah, and Virgil thought it might be the most uncomfortable he'd been in his life. "You…rescued me," he breathed.

Okay, yep, Roman needed to stop looking at him like that _right now_. It was way too creepy. "Yeah, well..." Virgil found himself quoting two very unlike Sides. "Fight-or-flight, am I right?"

Logan beamed, and Virgil warmed, just a little. "Incredibly right. Just as you keep Thomas away from potentially dangerous situations, you also enable him to escape from the ones he manages to get himself into."

Virgil saw Patton's coming a mile away. He'd even kind of braced for it. That didn't mean the radiant look on his face affected him any less. "I am incredibly proud of you, Anxiety."

Virgil restrained tears and scoffed, but even he knew it was a weak cover-up. "Whatever."

**Until Patton accidentally ruined it. "But I'm more proud of myself for enduring the Great Spider Threat of 2017."**

**For a moment, Virgil missed the words completely, too befuddled by the tonal whiplash to process them. But then, they started to sink in, alongside a familiar, consumptive grief that almost collapsed him where he stood.**

**He screwed his eyes shut, imagining, as vividly as he could, the exact weight, shape, texture and personality of each of his babies. Charlotte had always been the biggest, the head of the pack, hourglass and graceful and deadly as they came. Kumonga had been round and brown and very, very hairy, a little attention-hog, always desperate and eager for Virgil's and anyone else's love. Aragog came in as the middle child in every way, a mottled pattern of black and purple, with occasional spots, like a leopard's. Anansi had been the baby, so sweet and timid, with a glossy hourglass body and each of her eight purple eyes bright and massive and innocent and oh-so-loving.**

**"They…" Virgil opened his eyes to see Logan hang his head and pinch his sinuses, heedless to Virgil's pain a few paces away. "They were just curtains, Patton."** ****

**Roman considered Virgil intently off to the side, and it occurred to him that _imagining_ his babies in the presence of one of the Creativities had not been the best move he could have made. He couldn't bring himself to care, turning his attention to Thomas for just a moment, appreciating the unhesitant laughter of his center, even within his presence. He'd made it. Thomas needed him. Thomas _wanted_ it. He'd done what no Unknown had ever done: change his stripes to be wanted by their center.**

**But at what cost?**

**Roman cleared his throat loudly. "I think we can _all_ agree, though, that _I_ was the bravest one. Obviously."**

**Logan scoffed and Patton gushed while Thomas scowled at him disbelievingly, and Virgil glanced over to catch Roman's eye. He winked, but with a melancholic edge. Virgil stumbled a half-step in surprise. Roman...Roman had changed the topic to something incendiary to get the subject off spiders. For Virgil. So, he didn't have to grieve...**

**Virgil didn't something he never thought he'd do. He mouthed, "Thank you," to Roman. Roman didn't visibly respond, but he didn't need to. Receiving Logan's cutting verbal takedowns to spare Virgil a moment's pain spoke volumes.**

Virgil took a moment, then, to study everyone in turn—Logan, the visage of exasperation; Patton, smiling brightly as if delighting in Logan's Patton-fueled descent into insanity (he probably did, just a little); Roman, preening like some bird of paradise, touching up his makeup and fluffing his already excessively fluffy head of hair.

And Thomas, splayed messily across the couch, a barely tamed rat's nest atop his head and eyebags bordering on bruises under his eyes, in a stained t-shirt, faded blue jeans, and a light grey hoodie.

Virgil couldn't fight the smile expanding across his face as he took them all in; as he took his _family_ in.

_Home._

"You all went through that… _for me_." For once, he didn't both suppressing his awe.

"Ah, don't sweat it, Brad Pitiful," Roman said. "It was no big deal."

Virgil chuckled. At least he could rest assured of one constant in life, amidst the considerate self-sacrifice and welcoming smiles: Roman would always be really, _really_ annoying.

"It was worth it to regain my good ole worrywart." Thomas beamed drowsily at him.

"That's right," Logan exposed. "And just like you saved us, it's the vigilant people that work the hardest to save the world. Sometimes it's better for a society to be anxious than complacent."

Virgil rolled his eyes fondly—and tensed when a wild, crazy idea jump-tackled him out of nowhere. His anxiety spiked. He shielded Thomas from it, so he didn't even flinch, but that didn't stop his own thoughts from racing.

Should he...? No. But maybe? Well...no. He couldn't risk something this drastic without _at least_ testing the waters first.

Virgil took a deep breath. "Another thing," he began tentatively. "I lower all expectations for social gatherings, so, if you do actually go out, anything remotely good will be pleasantly surprising."

For a half-second, everyone stared at him in shock—until they erupted into a chorus of cheers and affirmation and laughter. Virgil's chest glowed with relief.

And then darkened with the storm clouds of anxiety, because did this mean he had to do it?

No. Of course not. No one had even _pressed him_ for his name this time, even though they'd be well in their rights to, after everything they'd endured to save him from himself. They finally respected him enough to leave that decision in his court—no nagging, no teasing, no demands. Maybe that explained why it had taken him so long to really consider this: only knowing they didn't feel entitled to his identity made him want to entrust it to them.

But then again…he still hadn't found a new name—a _Known_ name. All he'd done was drop the suffix and change the first vowel. It bore absolutely no resemblance to any of their names. No _-un_ sound at the end. He might not be an Unknown anymore, but didn't that mean he _also_ wasn't a Known, either?

Then again, those delineations had grown outdated. Unknowns still applied to his former colleagues, but even after Thomas _actively worked with him_ , he had remained with them—acknowledged, but unaccepted.

That didn't matter, though. If they heard how _different_ Virgil's name was, would they revoke their acceptance? Would they tell him he just wasn't ready for a place at the table if he wouldn't conform?

"Well," Thomas said, clapping his hands together. "I'm glad to have you back, and I promise to make sure you feel listened to and strive for a better balance from here on out."

But he'd _never_ conformed. That had been the whole point. There'd always been so much friction because he couldn't play by their rules. He existed outside the box Thomas had made for himself as a child, and nothing about what they'd said back in his room suggested they required him to _change_ that to belong. They changed _their_ outlooks. Virgil would stop being so antagonistic, but that didn't mean he had to stop being _anxiety_.

And after all…what was anxiety except the nebulous in-between of the Known and the Unknown? An emissary—or a spy. Virgil had made his allegiances clear now, though; there could be no more doubt about which side of the coin he fell on.

"Thanks, Thomas," Virgil said, a little distracted but nonetheless sincere.

But _would he_ change his name, if he could find another as fitting as Virgil or Vergilius? Would he leap aboard the conformity train if given the chance?

No. No, he wouldn't. And for the first time, Virgil thought that maybe, just maybe, that was okay.

Now, he'd just have to find an organic way to slip it into conversation.

Thomas whistled and clapped his hands together, and Virgil's eyes bulged out of his head. Wait, no, he couldn't be closing up already. Virgil hadn't found a good way to tell them his name yet, and after this, there'd never be a good time for it again and he'd just have to go around getting called Anxiety by his family all the time even though it hurt because he had no better option and it would itch and hurt like it always did and he'd go insane and bleed over onto Thomas and Thomas would realize he'd been wrong to accept him and—

"Well, that was exciting," Thomas concluded. "I think we should all just—"

"Wait!" Had that come from Virgil? Yes, it had, because now everyone was staring at him expectantly and oh shit. "I can't believe I'm actually considering it." He covered his face with his hands.

"What?" Virgil peeled his hands away from his eyes to look at Thomas, buffering him from the anxiety. "Anxiety?"

Virgil took a deep breath and shrugged jerkily. "You've kinda made me want to open up to you, but, _big surprise_ , I'm really anxious about it."

Patton giggled. "Anxious," he said. "Like your name."

_Bless you, you wonderful, delightful ray of naïve sunshine._ "Yep," Virgil said, nodding aggressively and gesturing like a drunk robot. "That was, uh...that—you're great, Patton, but actually—" _Here goes_ , he thought. "—on the subject of my name..."

Roman choked violently. " _Shut up_."

"That's okay," Logan said, gesturing dismissively, because this didn't matter to him, everyone already knew _his_ name. "No pressure. If you don't want to—"

"Logan," Patton snapped sweetly. "Shut your ever-flapping gob-talker, okay?"

Virgil lurched to a halt when he heard one last anxious thought carry over from Roman, too scared his room's influence had left lasting side effects to process it at first. But then he did.

_I didn't mean it,_ Roman thought desperately, and Virgil flashed back with him to the moment he demanded his name in exchange for acceptance. _I didn't mean to force him. Why do I always fuck this up?_

Virgil stared at him, and Roman stilled. "Logan's right," he said. "You don't have to tell us if you don't want to. You're one of us either way."

" _You're one of us either way."_ The words bounced around Virgil's head, settling the last of his frazzled nerves. They didn't need Virgil's name to clear away a place at the table anymore. Confiding his deepest, most personal self to them wasn't the cost for acceptance. He'd already _been_ accepted.

Virgil smiled—so slight, he doubted anyone would notice. But then Roman's brow furrowed, and he decided he didn't care if they did. "It's okay," he told him, then faced the room as a whole. "I mean it this time."

"No pranks or misleading?" Thomas checked hesitantly.

"Nope." Virgil took a deep breath, shifting around, flapping his hands, and releasing air in short little puffs. "Oh, man. Why did we have to have a heartfelt moment?" He couldn't help the pitiful whine, and he didn't much try.

"It's totally fine," Patton soothed. "This is a very accepting environment, but I have to tell you that I've been theorizing on it for a very long time, so if it's not exactly the name that I think it is, I will _lose it_."

Virgil stared at him, fear freezing his insides.

" _Patton_ ," Thomas warned, and Patton's eyes widened.

"Oh! Oh, I didn't mean—I'm so sorry, Anxiety! Please tell us your name? I promise we'll love it, _whatever_ it is. I promise!"

Virgil settled—and besides, he'd already made this bed. He couldn't back out now without being a tease—and everyone _hates_ teases. He really didn't want to be hated again.

But what if they hated his name, itself? Or what if they thought it was stupid and ridiculed it? Couldn't he have chosen _anything_ less weird than an archaic poet's anglicized name? How _niche_ could you get? Roman always called him an angsty try-hard; Roman would crown him _king_ of the angsty try-hards for this.

But he'd promised them his name, and now they expected it, and he couldn't be a tease because everyone hates teases. Oh God, what had he gotten himself into?

Virgil chewed his lip and glanced around anxiously. "Okay…" he began. "But promise you won't laugh, though?"

Thomas looked horrified by the thought. "Of course not."

He glanced around. Everyone watched him expectantly; Patton's hands folded under his chin, eyes sparkling; Logan leaning in toward Virgil little by little, as if afraid he would say it too quietly and Logan might miss it; Roman not knowing what to do with his hands until his fingers wiggled a little and covered his mouth.

But each of their eyes shined with restrained hopefulness, like they didn't dare expect his name in case it turned out to be an empty promise, but they couldn't help hoping against hope it wouldn't be.

Virgil's resolve strengthened and he straightened his back. "My name..."

_Deep breaths_ , he coached himself. _You can do this. You've even done it once before to the wrong Sides. This won't be anything compared to that. Deep breaths. This is easy. It's easy. Except this isn't anything like last time because last time you'd been telling them what they wanted to hear and this time you'll be telling them the exact opposite and you are_ not _qualified to function under this kind of pressure, what the hell were you thinking?_

Virgil shut down that train of thought before it could derail any further. "My name…"

_How am I supposed to know what name Patton thinks it is?_ he thought in direct violation to his earlier decision not to agonize over it any more. _Is he going to be disappointed in me for not choosing the name he would have chosen? I can't lose Patton's support. What if Thomas remembers Virgil from_ Dante's Inferno _way worse than he did in high school? Didn't Virgil belong to hell? Wouldn't his Catholic roots hate Virgil, then? Do_ I _belong to hell, too, because I chose his name like a heathenistic idiot?_

Virgil exhaled through his teeth, frustration at his own anxious inability to say the most basic of things building. "My name…"

" _I'm lucky to have you the way that I do,"_ Thomas had said.

Virgil looked around the room. His eyes settled first on Patton, across the way with his sparkly, hopeful eyes and vibrating enthusiasm.

" _You're one of us,"_ he'd told Virgil, months and months before any of the others even considered the possibility he might belong with them.

" _I'm so glad you're here! Have you had any cookies yet?"_

" _We'll be the best family ever!"_

" _And you're that feeling of tingliness when Thomas achieved something he didn't think was possible!"_

He looked at Logan, with his perfect tie and neutrally expectant gaze.

" _You did a good job."_

" _I hope Thomas chooses to accurately reflect your contributions."_

" _You're what made Thomas double- and triple-check things he needed to study before taking tests."_

Virgil looked at Roman, who might just chew his lip off completely if he kept up like this. They didn't have many good memories. Roman had always acted in opposition to him. But then again…

" _I think that's as good a sign as any that you're willing to work as a team and you make us…better."_

_"I think we can_ all _agree, though, that_ I _was the bravest one. Obviously."_

Maybe the future didn't always have to be unknowably bad.

And, finally, Virgil looked at Thomas—into his optimistic eyes, his warm, compassionate smile.

" _I'm lucky to have you in the way that I do,"_ he'd said.

" _We'll be the best family ever!"_ Patton had promised.

And, for the first time, Virgil really, genuinely, and completely believed him.

He took one last, shuddering, deep breath. "My name…" But it still stuck in his throat. All that soothing self-talk hadn't done shit. His anxiety still had him by the balls, and it had no intention of letting him go. He trusted them, but then he also didn't, and it didn't make sense and it drove him _insane_. Would nothing he did _ever_ make the damn words come out? Had Deceit fucked him up forever?

Unless…

"MY NAME IS VIRGIL!"

Once the dam broke, Virgil lost all semblance of volume control or _control_. The words spewed forth not unlike lava had from Rage's head, ripped from his body violently. It left a strange, fluffy hollowness in his chest after, like the confession had scooped out this piece of him. Instead of feeling bad, he felt lighter.

His new name tasted different than the old one—that had been tart, almost bitter in a comforting way; this time, it tasted sweet and smooth, like chocolate melting over the tongue. He liked it better.

Virgil closed his eyes and inhaled. "Okay, it's like a band-aid," he said, exhaling. "You just gotta rip it off."

Of course, then he remembered he wasn't alone.

"Vir-gil?" Patton sounded it out. Roman bit back a snort, and Virgil winced. "But that doesn't end with an -an or an -on. Shouldn't it be something like…Virgan?"

Roman's self-restraint shattered and he exploded into giggles. Virgil hunched his shoulders, shying away from his laughter—until he felt Thomas turn on Roman with orange defensiveness blazing in his eyes. "Why's that so funny?"

Virgil didn't know whether to panic over seeing Rage hold sway over Thomas or swell with the knowledge Thomas really _would_ stand up for him with Roman of all Sides. His tangled web of emotions lightened when he saw shame swallow Roman's expression whole. "It's not," he said, flashing Virgil an apologetic smile.

Virgil didn't offer him any reassurance back. He figured that might not be the Known way, but Roman's reaction stung and Virgil would need a while to adjust to being…not _evil._

Logan spoke last, and when he did, he spoke with a complicated expression. "Like the poet," he said. "From _The Divine Comedy._ "

" _Shit_ , I have been meaning to read the last two books of that." Thomas smacked himself on the side of the head.

Virgil chuckled softly and met Logan's eyes, hoping he could hopefully mend the rift he'd ripped between them with some bookish mind-meld. "Yeah," he said. "That's the one."

But he didn't meet understanding or hurt in Logan's eyes; he met orange steel. Virgil wilted under his gaze.

But then Thomas faced Virgil properly and beamed at him with such earnest sincerity, Virgil forgot all about his guilt. "I think it's an awesome name," he said.

"It's different," Patton agreed, a blinding smile overcoming his features as well, "but I like that it's different."

Even with Logan's anger and Roman's mockery, Virgil could have flown through the roof. He'd never felt so happy before in his life.

Then Roman faced him soberly. "It was unex— _holy shit_ , I knew I saw your eyeshadow turn purple that one time!"

Virgil yelped and ducked his face. 'What? Where? What? When? What?" He yanked his hood up.

"Ooh!" Patton leapt up and down, pointing. "I saw it, too! I saw it, too!"

"Fascinating," Logan said emphatically. "Does your eyeshadow always turn bright purple when you are experiencing positive emotions?" He whipped out a small notebook and a pen.

" _Logan_!" Patton chided. "Put that away."

"He's not a lab rat, Calculator Watch!"

"Each Side exhibits different—"

"Everyone, _enough_!" Thomas shrieked. "You're overwhelming him!"

Obediently, all three other Sides fell silent. Virgil glanced up and around anxiously.

"See?" Thomas said, gesturing. "No purple eyeshadow. It was a trick of the light, Roman."

"We're not real!" Roman objected. "How can there be tricks of the light when you're not real? Logan, can there be tricks of the light when you're not real?"

"Well, as Sides, we lack photosensitive retinas—the part of the eye responsible for processing light—but—"

"Are you going to get to the point in the next century?" Roman demanded.

Logan locked his jaw. "Never mind."

Virgil winced and flashed Logan a sympathetic look, which he flagrantly ignored. Virgil glared at Roman. Forget taking the fall for Virgil when Patton freaked out about spiders. Logan was his friend. Did Roman actually have beef with literally every Side _except_ himself?

"Guys," Patton pacified, "this is a _happy day_. Virgil just told us his name—and I _love_ your name, kiddo." Patton beamed at him. "Really. It wasn't the name I'd thought up in my head, but I think it's even better!"

Roman cleared his throat and, because he was _him_ , summoned a gong to bang on it. Virgil launched two feet into the air and hissed, perching on the banister.

Logan pinched his sinuses. "Yes, Roman. You have succeeded in gaining our attention and frightening Virgil. What is it?"

Roman winced. "Sorry." He snapped his fingers. "Still adjusting to the… 'taking your feelings into account' thing."

Virgil flipped him off and hopped back onto the ground.

Roman sucked in a breath and met his eyes. "What I _meant_ to say, before I got distracted—I will maintain on my gravestone your eyeshadow turned purple just now—" Virgil blushed. "—was…" Roman did a deep breath. To Virgil's surprise, the pomp and circumstance he walked around brandishing had disappeared, leaving an achingly genuine Side behind. Virgil stared disbelievingly. "It took a lot to trust us with that," Roman said. "Especially me, and I didn't exactly… _respect it_ , when I first…" He averted his eyes, face twisted up, both from pain _and_ shame. Roman took another breath and met Virgil's eyes again. "Thank you, for telling us your name… _Virgil._ "

There's something peculiar about the human experience, after you entrust something so sensitive to people. However much anxiety you grapple with leading up to the confession, you always know, deep down, which individuals you can trust to respect it, and to respect you. When they live up to your expectations, it's nice, and it's gratifying, but it's nothing mind-blowing.

But when, for whatever reason, you choose to confide in someone you _don't_ trust to respect you, and they prove you _wrong_?

Well, there isn't anything more gratifying in the world.

And that, at its root, is why toxic relationships never learn to die.

Virgil stared at Roman, whose eyes widened. He suspected whatever purple eyeshadow phenomenon Roman had freaked out about had happened again. He didn't say anything this time. Virgil cracked a small smile and shrugged. "You can call me Virge."

" _Can I call you Virge?"_ The memory—true to the Side who'd spoken it—intruded rudely on Virgil's happy moment, and he fought a flinch. He pushed it aside. He had no room left for doubt and guilt now.

Thomas whistled quietly. "Thank you for opening up to us—uh, Virgil. Virge, for short."

Virgil smiled at him despite himself. "Whatever." He waved him off, like he always did, like he'd been _trained_ to do—don't accept praise, don't show your vulnerable underbelly, don't be anything other than scary. Well, fuck Deceit, anyway. "I'm at least glad I can offer some help," Virgil told him sincerely, "even if sometimes I can be…hard to deal with."

Logan nodded, puffing up with pride. "In Thomas' case, you are indeed manageable."

"Yeah," Roman added, "and you're nothing compared to the others."

And just like that, the good mood died a miserable death.

Roman's hand flew over his mouth too late. Virgil's blood ran cold. He sensed the familiar energy in the air, clogging up his senses, choking Roman before he could say another damning word.

Deceit.

Virgil exchanged a terrified look with Patton. They gulped in unison.

Unfortunately, Thomas hadn't missed the atmospheric shift "Others?" he demanded fearfully. "What do you mean others? What others?"

Everyone tensed and exchanged nervous looks with each other. Roman's eyes darted from corner to corner and Virgil could feel him casting out for any hint of green. Patton braced for a cruel face of yellow scales to pop up beside any one of them, and Logan scanned the room for hints of orange.

They had each chosen a different Unknown to fear the most, and Virgil didn't know what to think about that.

"Well, this is foreboding," Thomas declared.

"Ah, it's nothing," Patton chirped, waving hastily and sinking out before Thomas could ask anything else.

"Farewell," Logan added, disappearing alongside him. Virgil realized too late the last Side out would have to be the one to deal with this.

"Wait, Lo—" But Logan was already gone. "Roman, seriously, don't—"

"Auf Wiedersehen, good night," Roman belted as he, too, abandoned Virgil to pick up his mess alone.

Bastard.

Thomas watched Virgil fearfully. "What was that all about?"

Virgil hesitated. The last thing Thomas needed, after barely mustering the courage to accept _Virgil_ when he'd finally kicked the vile roots that alienated him so badly in the beginning, was to learn there were parts of him—good, kind, nurturing, wonderful, selfless Thomas—that had somehow ended up less than pure.

"Look." Virgil sighed and mustered warmth into his voice. He sensed Patton loan him some Empathy, and he relaxed a little. "I know I'm the one that's causing you to be suspicious, but honestly, table that question for another day."

Thomas relaxed and nodded. His curiosity still burned deep down—Virgil could see it in his body language and expression—but Virgil's reassurance had done the trick. He let it go. "Got'cha," he said. "And Virgil?"

Virgil's eye twitched. "So weird hearing you say that." And by _weird_ , Virgil meant _wonderful._

Thomas chuckled. "Honestly, thank you for all of the good stuff that you _do_ provide." His eyes sparkled. "You can be a good guy."

_A good guy_ , Virgil thought, smiling blissfully as he sank out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should just leave the stuffed animals and ice cream here until further notice. We're kinda out of tissues, but you shouldn't need that again. At least for a little while. Maybe not at all until the next part! Here's hoping.
> 
> Comments feed the author machine, and the author machine is currently in desperate need of being oiled because I haven't written a new thing in over a week because hormones are apparently gonna hate me for at least one more. Working on the second part, I promise. Sorry!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil has some much-needed, hard conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're clearing the air here. There aren't any trigger warnings except for one line where Virgil remembers his spider babies again, because that's just gonna keep coming up.

"I am flawed, / but I am cleaning up so well." ~ "Vindicated" by _Dashboard Confessionals_

* * *

* * *

VIRGIL DIDN'T UNDERSTAND GIDDINESS. Effervescent, senseless joy that burst out in little, suppressed giggles and dance routines? It sounded impossible to him. He assumed his role as Anxiety exempted him from any chance whatsoever of experiencing it; that he would never feel happiness on the level people talked about.

He understood giddiness now.

"Sometimes I get the feeling she's watching over me!" Virgil skipped around his room, drumming vigorously on the open air and hitting imaginary guitar chords with gusto. The eyeshadow under his eyes, he noted as he passed a full-length mirror, had shifted color into a bright purple. So, Roman had been right. Weird. "And other times, I feel like I should go!"

Something niggled at the back of his mind, but he ignored it, celebrating the impossible in the privacy of his own room, jamming out to the quintessential _My Chemical Romance_ song and, for the first time _ever_ , loving every second of his existence.

"And through it all, the rise and fall, the bodies in the street, and when you're gone, we want you all to— _holy motherfucker_!"

Virgil whirled mid-leap to find Logan. He stood in the middle of his room, holding a familiar, semi-crinkled file and glaring at him with orange passion that had begun to feel more natural in them than their intended grey-brown.

"Son of a bitch! Logan, have you lost your mind? You can't be in here! Get—"

"I have every intention of leaving promptly, but you wouldn't answer when I knocked," Logan said measurably, "and there is an important matter we have to discuss." He held up the file. Virgil's spirits sank and he slumped back. "Perhaps it would be best if we met on neutral ground, so to speak."

Virgil's fingers jumped. He couldn't hear his thoughts yet, but it was only a matter of time. "Where?"

"Follow me."

Logan led Virgil from his room to a parlor that seemed to grow out of the living room setting in the Conscious Mind. Virgil couldn't remember ever seeing it before, and it definitely wasn't part of Thomas house. There were tall mahogany bookcases that screamed of the dark academia aesthetic, with sliding ladders on them. It wasn't hard to imagine Logan taking those for a ride. There was a chess table and a desk in the center of the room, and faint, instrumental music played. Some piano piece. Virgil preferred hard rock, but he couldn't say he was surprised to find Logan was more classical.

Virgil also wasn't surprised Logan hadn't taken him back to his room; he'd lost that right, after all.

Logan slammed the file on the desk and hunched over. "What were you _thinking_?" he hissed.

Anything Virgil might have said stuck in his throat, and he shook his head frantically.

"You could have incapacitated Thomas. Crippled him. _Permanently_. If he hadn't been able to track you down—"

"I thought it was the right thing," Virgil heard himself burst out. "Logan, please, the last thing I wanted to do was hurt Thomas. I thought leaving would _protect him_. I thought—"

"I warned you about the dangers!" Logan roared. "I warned you what could happen if any of us ceased serving our functions!"

"I know!" Tears hung like slime in Virgil's throat, and he shook his head desperately. "I know." He hung his head. "I should have listened to you, Logan. I really thought Roman was right and I was—"

"Roman?" Logan's tone was tight but otherwise unreadable, and Virgil didn't like the sound of it.

His head snapped up almost of its own volition. "Not like that. Roman never told me to do anything, I swear. He just—he just mentioned some things. He told me _not_ to leave. He said we could work together. I just wasn't listening. It's not his fault. It's me. I'm the one who used you and I'm sorry. Please, just—please." Virgil gulped, hands shaking visibly in front of him, as if he were holding Logan's anger at bay. He shoved them into his pockets. "It's fine. It's just…I'm sorry."

Logan stared at him levelly for a while. Virgil waited for him to chew him out. After the shit Virgil had pulled, how he'd used and manipulated him, how he'd acted like _Deceit_ , he deserved the worst Logan could give him. Hell, if Logan decided to stab him in the throat with a pen, he wouldn't blame him.

Logan, however, did nothing of the sort. He just swept behind the desk and sat down. He pulled up a pen, clicked the top, and began writing.

Virgil faltered. "What are you…?"

"The escapades you caused today set me back significantly on my work," Logan said without inflection and without lifting his head from what he was writing. "If Thomas is to meet any of his deadlines, I cannot afford distractions. This room will seal itself off when you leave. Now leave."

Virgil turned his head down and away. The dismissal landed harder than an actual hit; it felt uncannily like being rejected all over again.

When Virgil ducked out, it didn't just shield Thomas from him; it showed them all Virgil was more than he appeared and without it, he might never have been accepted by the group as a whole. But he'd trampled Logan on his way to achieve that, even if he didn't know that was what he'd reap by the end of it.

The price of acceptance had been Logan's trust, and Virgil didn't know if he could live with that.

Virgil paused at the doorway, shoulders hunched, trembling hands hidden away. He was not known for his bravery, but maybe, just this once…he could try. He turned to Logan. "How fast do bats fly again?"

"Up to sixty miles per hour on average," Logan recited, "but a 2016 paper published by the University of Tennessee recorded the Mexican free-trailed bat at a hundred miles per hour, documenting it as the fastest mammal on Earth." His head snapped up and he paused. "Why?"

"What about, uh…how do they fly?"

Logan blinked. "They have wings, Anx—" He caught himself. "Virgil."

"Well, yeah, I know, but, like…the biology. And the evolutionary…stuff." Virgil shifted from foot to foot anxiously. His courage was rapidly drying up. Another three seconds, and he'd make like a Mexican free-tailed bat.

Logan set down his pen and studied him closely. "Why do you care?"

Virgil swallowed and shifted his weight around a little more vigorously. "The only times I wasn't choking myself thinking about how bad I was for Thomas were the times we were hanging out," he admitted. "And honestly, all that research you've got about how things _work_ here? _Huge_ load of relief." Virgil lifted his eyes to meet Logan's. "I don't like not knowing what the rules are with stuff; I just end up thinking that everything I'm doing is wrong, and the bad shit is coming no matter what I do, and it's…nice to know better. And aside from anything else…" Virgil gulped. "You're a really good book buddy."

He risked glancing up at Logan to see him sitting, impassive, hands clasped over his work on his desk, studying Virgil. At this rate, his anxiety had already clawed his throat raw and started working on the rest of his insides.

"And the next time I advise you for or against something?" Logan asked. "What will you do?"

"My best to listen." Virgil gulped hard. "And also, my best not to be a total idiot. I'm not you with the smarts, so no promises."

For a split second, Virgil thought Logan might have smiled, but it must have been a trick of the light. "You're smarter than you credit yourself with, Virgil," he said. "Thank you."

A million pounds evaporated from his shoulders and he turned to leave, but apparently, Logan had just remembered something else. "Wait!"

Virgil turned, confused and frowning. "Yeah?"

"I wanted to ask you about your name," Logan said diplomatically. "When we chose ours, Patton was rather insistent that ours all end in similar sounds. He considered it like the surname of our…unorthodox family." He separated his hands to gesture, then folded them together again. "Considering the name of Roman's brother, which we already know, I suppose it was…my assumption that the Unknowns would operate similarly."

Virgil tensed, and Logan's eyes sparked with understanding when he realized the line he'd just crossed. "I'm not one of them," Virgil snarled. "Not anymore. Maybe not ever."

"Of course," Logan said quickly. "I only meant—"

"I left them to come here." Virgil was still shaking, but this time, it wasn't from anxiety. "Isn't that what you said you wanted from me? To stop associating with them?"

"Virgil, I hadn't meant—"

" _I'm not one of them_." Virgil met his eyes. "I'm one of you. I thought you finally got that."

Logan held his gaze neutrally. "We do," he said, "but Patton was right. Your name still does not end in an '-an' or '-on.'"

"What's in a fucking name, anyway?" Virgil snapped. "It doesn't mean anything!"

"Our names are our choices," Logan pointed out. Virgil stopped, clenching his fists. "I'm not asking to challenge you, Virgil. I'm asking to understand you. Are you aware of the Latin variation to that name?"

Virgil locked eyes with Logan and didn't answer.

After a moment, Logan nodded. "Is Virgil still comfortable for you?"

" _Yes_."

"Then I will continue to call you Virgil." He nodded cordially. "Have a good day."

* * *

When Virgil saw Roman kicked back on a couch in the living room, re-watching one of the many _Disney_ movies Thomas had memorized, scene-by-scene, line-by-line, he had to remind himself occupying the same room as Remus' knightly twin was not a potential death sentence anymore. His mind jumped aboard that comforting train right away.

His nerves, on the other hand?

Virgil tried to sink out before Roman spotted him. He could just sense the cool embrace of his room around his ankles when he heard, "Anxiety!"

Dammit.

Virgil resigned himself and anchored in the shared quarters of the Conscious Mind, hands buried his pockets, shoulders hunched, head bowed. "Look, Roman, I appreciate what you said back in my room, but I'm not gonna hold you to it," he mumbled. "You said it yourself. We're diametrically opposed. I can't expect you to—"

"I'm so sorry."

Virgil's head snapped up and faltered, now that Roman was standing and facing him. He didn't even know why. Nothing was awry about his uniform. He'd applied makeup with the artiste's hand he always used. His teeth were blinding white. Light reflected off the stained glass quality of his eyes.

Even despite all of that, despite his per usual impeccable appearance and vainly upheld good looks, something resonated as _wrong_ , looking at him. Virgil told himself it was just the residual from his room's corruption; he couldn't help but flash back to Roman with black streaks bigger and darker than even his own, and it had tainted his perception of the Side, but only for today, maybe a little while after.

He hoped.

Then Roman's expectant, pleading, _guilty_ expression registered in Virgil's mind, and he forgot about the rest of it. "For what?" he asked, trying for casual when they both knew there'd been too many seconds between Roman's statement and his response. He tried not to overthink it.

Of course, he failed, but A+ for effort or something stupid like that.

"I never meant to make you feel like I was chasing you away," he said passionately, folding his hands over his heart with so much sincerity, Virgil almost couldn't bear it. "I was a fool for not recognizing your contributions and encouraging them, and I swear, as soon as I realized what I'd done, I—"

"You blamed yourself," Virgil said, meeting his eyes, "but you still didn't want to admit it because you thought you couldn't be a hero if I wasn't the bad guy."

Roman stopped and his face fell. His eyes turned to steel. "No," he said neutrally. "That isn't what I was going to say."

"No, but it's the truth." Virgil hesitated, then pulled his hands out of his pockets to cross his arms over his chest. "Be careful telling anything else. Just because it isn't me doesn't mean there isn't still a bad guy here."

Roman wavered, settling back. "What even happened over there?" he asked. "It's like you flipped the whole script about them one day. I don't get it."

Virgil hesitated and tried to trace things back. He couldn't. "I don't know," he admitted. "I guess I just woke up one day and realized that wasn't home, and at least Deceit and Rage aren't out for Thomas' benefit. Just their own."

" _None_ of them are out for Thomas," Roman said. "Are you kidding? The whole lot are as morally bankrupt as they come. Remus keeps telling him to jump out of moving cars! That's literally suicide!"

"Or at least a brutal hospitalization," Virgil agreed, then shook his head and held a hand up. "Look, of all of them, Remus is _definitely_ the tamest. He—"

"—keeps fantasizing about murdering Thomas' friends! There's nothing 'tame' about that! I don't even know how we're related. We're nothing alike."

"You're—!" Virgil lurched to a stop, staring at him, because no. No, no, no, no, no. Roman was wrong. He had to be _wrong_ about Remus. Didn't he?

Remus _did_ fantasize about murdering Thomas' friends, but he couldn't help that, right? Thomas wired him that way when he split Creativity in half. And Remus was always so earnest in everything. _Childlike_ , with how his eyes lit up every time someone gave him a fun idea. He craved validation but didn't need it, unlike Roman. He was the better twin.

Except for where he violated Virgil's mind to "help him."

Virgil wanted to believe that was Deceit's doing, but thinking it over …if Thomas wired Remus as intrusive thoughts, then Thomas wired Deceit as…well… _deceit_. By that logic, none of them were responsible for any of their actions—not even Rage for killing Virgil, because he had done that in a rampage. If Virgil could rationalize his misgivings about Remus away, then why couldn't he do that for Rage and Deceit?

The answer was so painfully, aggressively simple, Virgil wanted to kick himself: he couldn't. They each had ulterior motives that _hurt_ Thomas, and they didn't care. They didn't care about anyone but themselves. Remus just hid it the best, behind a veneer of innocence and earnest laughter. It wasn't _really_ like he was romanticizing murder; look how cute he was when he did it.

And Virgil had fallen for it. Virgil had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker.

After all, what other explanation was there? That all the Unknowns had Thomas' best interests at heart and they'd just been wired in a way that caused a lot of trouble? Virgil figured himself out, shrugged off those shackles, and he _sure_ as hell didn't manipulate people. The brief period he did had been at Deceit's behest, and he forgot those orders too quickly for them to count.

Either the Unknowns were secretly just as valid as the Knowns and Virgil had made a terrible mistake leaving them, or Remus was no different than Deceit. Virgil knew the only reasonable conclusion.

"Shit," he muttered. "Shit, I'm such— _fuck_."

"What are you—?" Roman stopped, and Virgil spied his expression through a gap in his fingers, just out of his periphery. It caused him enough pause that he lifted his face to watch his expression soften. "Let me guess," Roman said, a little sorrowfully. "He had you convinced he was some innocent little lamb who couldn't control what he thought?"

"I'm such a fucking idiot," Virgil confirmed with a heavy outflux of air. He snapped his fingers to summon an armchair and collapsed back into it, resting his head back.

"Not really." Roman seemed to consider them. "Well, okay, yeah, you are, but he almost had me on that train once, too."

Virgil's head snapped up and he stared at him dumbfoundedly. Roman balked under his gaze, picking at his white slacks.

"Ran into him, in…you know that place between, like… _us_ and _them_?" Virgil's expression wiped clean and cold, lonely, bitter memories of Limbo washing over him. Roman didn't notice. "We fought for a little while and I won, not that the little bitch stayed down. I don't know why, but I just…started talking to him. Comparing notes on how things were going on our sides of the…thing." Roman gestured. "And, like an _idiot_ , I offered to meet him halfway in the Imagination, in this part where all Thomas' dreams he forgets hang out. He proceeded to use that offer to fill my room with kittens, half of which ate people and the other half of which looked exactly the same as them. You do not want to _think_ about the headache it was getting all those bastards out." Virgil stared at him and Roman stopped. "What?" he demanded.

"I— _kittens_?" Virgil snickered, then stop himself, then burst out laughing. "I'm sorry! I just can't stop seeing you in this _sea_ of cats! It's hilarious!"

"It is _not_!" Roman objected. "I have an allergy! And they _eat people_!" But Roman cracked up, too. Virgil couldn't believe he was sharing a laugh with _Roman_ of all Sides, yet here they were—and it wasn't even the worst experience in the world.

Roman's laughter petered out with Virgil's, and he looked contemplative for a moment before saying, "So you know?" Virgil arched his eyebrows. "I really came to your room that day to talk things out. I _wanted_ a compromise. I guess I'm just shit at reaching those. I'll, uh…work on it."

Amusement soured to spite in an instant. "Then what the _fuck_ was with the flowers?" Virgil demanded.

Roman lurched to a stuttered halt. "What about them?" He wrinkled his brow like he was _actually_ confused. "I thought—"

"You thought giving me _dead flowers_ was, what?" Virgil flung his arms wide. "That was the most passive-aggressive bullshit I've seen in my life, dude! Do you have any idea what anxiety _does_ with passive-aggression?"

Roman's eyes bugged out of his head and he choked violently. "No! No, shit, that wasn't what I meant at all! Oh, fuck, that—I'm so sorry! It's just, I always apologize with flowers, but I thought they'd, like, mess up your angsty, emo, Gothic vibe, so I figured, maybe if I killed them, it would still work and be, like, a middle-ground between us! I just assumed you'd prefer them dead! I will _totally_ take them and bring them back to life, I promise! I never meant that at all!"

Roman snapped his fingers and, _somehow_ , the dead flowers appeared in his hands even though they had just been in Virgil's room. Before Virgil could agonize over the idea that Roman could summon shit from his private quarters at will, he realized he was about to resurrect the florae and snatched it back.

Roman stopped and stared.

Virgil felt very awkward. "No, it's…I just…I assumed you were still thinking about it like you," he explained. "Bright red flowers would never work in my room. Decorating around them sounds just…impossible." He hugged the dead roses to his chest protectively.

Roman stopped. "Wait, so I was thinking like you and you were thinking like me?" He gestured as he spoke, then stopped. "Well, no wonder _that_ went to hell. We're literally polar opposites."

Virgil snorted, then pressed his lips thin and held Roman's gaze anxiously. Roman cracked a smile of his own, though, and _somehow_ , they ended up laughing together _again._

"We're a mess!" Roman cried. "A complete mess! A travesty! A gay travesty!"

"We're part of Thomas. What do you _expect_?"

Roman crashed to the floor from how hard he was laughing. "None of this would have happened if we just talked to each other!"

" _Right_?"

They laughed hard for a while longer, then recovered. Glowing red under his foundation, Virgil found his footing and snapped the flowers back to his room, now that he didn't see them as an unpleasant reminder of Roman's hatred. Roman reached out to clasp his shoulder, maybe in solidarity, but when Virgil recoiled and hissed, he lifted his hands in surrender.

"It was good talking to you," Roman said, sincerely. " _Actually_ talking. With you. Not just at you. Next time I pull something like I did, go ahead and bitch-slap me."

"I mean, you're already a bitch, so it would just be a slap." Virgil smirked.

Roman flipped him off, chuckling, and turned to finish his movie. He faltered partway to. "Uh…Virgil?"

Virgil sighed and stopped on his way to the stairwell. "Yeah?"

Roman's expression was difficult to read. "Another thing you should know. We operate a lot differently here from what I figure you're used to. One of the things we _don't_ do is read each other's thoughts if they tap into our functions."

Virgil stopped dead. "You don't?"

Roman shook his head. "Patton's real strict about that. Privacy is a huge thing here. Logan would freak if we didn't respect that." He hesitated. "If you, uh…if you've ever overheard what Logan's thinking, maybe don't mention it. If you think he's bad when you accuse him of being dumb…you've never _seen_ him when he thinks you've breached his privacy."

Guilt flared red-hot in Virgil's chest and he winced, nodding. "I…shit, thanks, man. I didn't know. It's just…"

"Yeah, I get it. Just try to work on it, all right?"

As Virgil walked away, it dawned on him: if everyone here stayed to their own even when their purviews drew them toward another Side, then that meant he didn't need to worry about eavesdroppers all the time. _He_ had complete privacy, too. He decided then he would work his ass off until he could respect everyone else's.

* * *

"Virgil!"

For the first time in his existence, Virgil experienced something Logan would call _social overload_. He'd felt it through Thomas before, of course, but that experience wasn't the same. There had always been a disconnect between the things Thomas experienced Virgil didn't know personally and the things that freaked him out independently.

Still, Virgil was Thomas' anxiety, so if Virgil suffered a panic attack for even unrelated reasons to Thomas' life, that could overflow onto Thomas in some small way. It had happened a million times before. It could happen again.

" _I'd rather work with you than without you at all,"_ Thomas had said. Everyone else had agreed with him.

If Virgil didn't want to overflow onto Thomas, then Virgil needed to tell the others when it was too much and explain when he felt overwhelmed, like he hadn't felt safe doing in the Subconscious.

Except Virgil was literally the embodiment of anxiety, so…some things are way easier said than done.

"Uh…" Virgil looked around nervously. Why did Patton have to be the straw the broke the camel's back? Patton was sweet and kind and had always given him respect, even when no one else cared. Why couldn't it have been Roman? Virgil could stomach being rude to Roman a lot better than Patton. "Pat, I don't—"

"I know you probably don't wanna be bothered and you like your space. I just wanted to give you this."

Patton handed a simple, folded white sheet of paper with multicolored letters on the front in crayon reading: _U R FAM_. Virgil hesitated and opened it to a childlike drawing of the Sides, including Virgil, on the back of the page below a rainbow. There was a heart on the next page that read: _ILY_.

Virgil suppressed a smile. "You always were bad at art," he told Patton fondly.

Patton beamed. "See you later, kiddo. Can I get you for dinner?"

Virgil didn't understand mealtimes for Sides. They weren't _people_. They didn't have stomachs. There was no physical need to ingest food. He supposed Patton just liked the mandated socialization it inflicted on them all every day, where they had to sit down as a family, talk, and get along.

You know, something Deceit had tried one (1) time and it had gone disastrously wrong. Virgil would be lying if he pretended he wasn't curious to see what that would look like in the Conscious Mind.

He smiled. "Yeah," he agreed. "I think I could do that."

Patton beamed and Virgil slipped into his room, bracing against the door to click it shut. His chest was light and fluttery. His mind was clear. For the first time, he felt like he could breathe.

He was so happy, he forgot Charlotte wasn't there to congratulate him on a good time. He remembered soon enough.

* * *

Virgil kept one eye on the clock while he tidied up the last bits of his room. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint Patton, and he figured it would make a positive impression if he headed down for dinner on his own. He knew the average time Thomas ate, so it wasn't hard estimating when the Knowns had their daily meal.

He didn't expect what he walked in on.

"But—but _Toothless_ , Roman!" Patton whined. "He's so cute! He's a like a kitty cat! And it's all about family and—"

"But _Disney_ , Patton!"

Virgil peered over the side of the stairwell to spy Roman striking one of his patented melodramatic, melancholic poses, one hand in front of him as he closed his fingers into a fist and brought it down with the most William Shatner-like expression Virgil thought he'd ever seen.

"What is a prince to _do_ if he can't consume the median of film befitting his regality?"

"Hang up the crown and shut the fuck up?" Virgil called down before he could stop himself.

Everyone jumped and turned, looking up to see him. He braced to bolt at the outrage he was certain would greet him, but instead, Patton cheered and raced up the stairs to embrace him. Roman just rolled his eyes, and Logan flung an arm out, setting down the book he'd been reading.

"Thank Newton, Virgil. I thought they'd never cease." Logan pushed his chair back and rose to his feet to greet him with a slight smile.

Virgil fumbled a little on the stairs when Patton tackled him in a hug, awkwardly patting him—heh, patting the Patton—on the back. Patton shot away and he had a moment to panic that he'd done something wrong before Patton took him by the wrist and dragged him down the stairwell to the living room.

"Virgil picks the movie!" Patton declared excitedly.

"You watch movies when you eat?" Virgil looked around in confusion.

"Why, of course, we do," Roman said, expression knotted up in sincere bewilderment. "What else would we talk about?"

"Roman veraciously and often inaccurately critiques every movie we watch," Logan supplied, fixing his tie. "It's become something of a tradition."

"It's not _inaccurate_. I'm critiquing the romance of the piece!" Another pose.

"Nonsensical," Logan said automatically. "Unless a film is created with romanticism in mind, it isn't going to _have_ —" Logan cut himself off at the frank look Roman fixed him with, and he shifted briefly under his gaze, fidgeting more with his tie. "Ah. Well, in that case, not everything is about romance."

"Of _course_ , everything is about romance, Logan! What other meaning is there to find in life?"

" _We divine meaning from our choices and nothing else. No one can complete us."_

Virgil shook off the devil he refused to let roost on his shoulder and said, "Is this what it's like for you guys _every_ time you have dinner?"

"Yes," they chorused, just as an oven chimed.

"Oh! The meatloaf!" Patton fled into the next room and Virgil opened his mouth to ask.

"Don't," Logan advised, holding up his hand. "The explanation won't satisfy you."

Virgil scoffed fondly under his breath, taking in his surroundings. Bright, glowing with white stability. Everything in its place. Everything neat. No blood haphazardly streaked across the walls or soaking the floorboards. No agonized screams serving as a horrible soundtrack. Even if it wasn't the peaceful paradise Virgil used to picture, it still felt like home.

"Well, Linkin Dark?" Roman prompted. Virgil jumped a little, turning to look at him. He expected to find a scowl, but instead, he found a smile. "What movie are you going to subject us to?"

Virgil smiled. "How do you all feel about horror?"


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil isn't so sure about this hair appointment. 1/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had considered combining the second part with this because it's so short, but the second part is, conversely, rather long. I know my chapter lengths tend to average a little shorter, and that's deliberate. I grade the lengths of my updates based on how much I think I, on one of my worst attention span days, can sit through. Even something really fun can lose me if I'm struggling to focus, and I know how irritating it is to try to track down where you left off on a fic when you can't rely on chapter breaks. 
> 
> All that being said, I recognize this is _really_ short and kind of a crummy place to leave off (not a cliffhanger, just a weird, sudden drop-off), so if you guys want the next part up, like, now, just send me a comment letting me know. It's already written, like all of this fic, and I don't wanna be weird and just stretch things out unnecessarily, especially with the gaps I leave between updates. 
> 
> Warnings: Patton does the Aragog line from the show and Virgil goes Full Angst for a minute, but that's bolded like all the others, so if you have a recent past with pet loss or you just don't feel comfortable reading grief over pet loss, go ahead and skip that. Otherwise, no trigger warnings here.

"I've been running all my life / just to find a home that's for the restless." ~ "Still Breathing" by _Green Day_

* * *

VIRGIL FOUGHT IT AS LONG AS HE COULD, but in the end, he still lost.

"Thomas," he said passionately as soon as he popped in.

Thomas glanced over at him and offered him a smile—no alarm, no repulsion, no disgust, anger or frustration. "Hey, Virgil. I was wondering when you'd pop up. I expected a _lot_ sooner, if I'm honest." He chuckled, and before Virgil could process what he'd just said, he called, "Hey, guys! Virgil's back!"

All at once and one at a time, Patton, Roman and Logan popped up.

Patton cheered when he saw Virgil. "Hey, kiddo!" He waved enthusiastically, enough that Virgil thought his hand would have flown off if he was an actual person. "We haven't seen you in _forever_."

Virgil stared at him uncomprehendingly. "I _just_ had breakfast with you. Roman made us watch _Snow White. Again_."

"Hey!" Roman objected. "It's a classic!"

"Rife with so many objective moral problems, even _I_ shudder at it," Logan said. "And I don't _care_ about morality."

Patton's eyes watered, Roman squawked, and Virgil shot Logan a dirty look.

Logan's eyes almost bugged out of his head. "Not—obviously, I don't mean you, Patton. I am just indifferent to the societal concept about morality because it hinges on the objectivity of right and wrong, which is a fundamentally—"

"Logan," Virgil cut in before he could propel him headlong into another existential crisis. " _Shut up_."

"So, what exactly _is_ your problem with our bold new do, Panic! at the Everywhere?" Roman asked, one eyebrow arched.

Virgil narrowed his eyes at him. "He still hasn't—he's headed _for_ the hair appointment," he said. "What—?" Virgil shook his head and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. "Thomas, look, I'm sorry." He almost patted himself on the back for remembering to say that first, but resisted the urge. "I know you want to do this, but it's a—" Virgil yanked himself to a halt. _Don't be pushy_ , he reminded himself, and adjusted to say, "I just think it's—" He sucked in a sharp breath, because maybe he should have scripted out his entire appeal _before_ he popped in. "I just don't think this is the… _best_ idea."

He winced. It was a weak plea to say the least, but he still had to get used to this whole teamwork thing; he didn't always play well with others, and it would take a lot before he could play by Thomas' rules perfectly.

Logan considered him with a slight head-tilt. "Fascinating. He's trying not to be too harsh so as to avoid distressing you, but he is the _source_ of your anxiety. This is odd. _He_ is odd _._ "

Virgil recoiled from his scrutiny and watched him cautiously. When Logan started talking like that, Virgil worried he might pull out a scalpel and dissect him "for science."

"Logan…" Thomas warned.

"Oh, c'mon, Gerard Gay," Roman said and then continued before Virgil's mind could process the idea of one of his musical icons swinging his way. "Imagine the possibilities for the Great Selfie Game." He summoned a phone from nothing to hold it in front of his face, and Virgil stared at him dubiously. The phone vanished into a puff of smoke and Roman turned to Thomas, gesturing emphatically. "But I _implore you_ , Thomas, please consider." He arced a hand through the air. "Rainbow hair."

"No!" Virgil screamed. "Nope! Nuh-uh. _Nope_. Not a chance in hell. _Nope_." He frantically waved his hands in front of him. He could already hear the derision from everyone Thomas passed on the street and the homophobes who'd drag himself into an alley and beat him up.

Too late, it dawned on him his minor meltdown might have spilled over onto Thomas, but Thomas just laughed at Roman's suggestion. "Oh, I'm already full rainbow all the time."

 _Great_ , Virgil thought. _I'm losing. Again_. "Thomas, all I'm saying is…in your past, it's always been easier to blend in. If you make yourself stand out— _like this_ —" He shook his head. "Yeah, it _can_ be good, but it can be… _not so good._ "

Logan developed the mad scientist glint again. "Fascinating," he repeated, earning a sharp look from Thomas, before abandoning his contemplation to say, "But Virgil does have a point. Could one's pursuit of happiness through unique self-expression lead to the… _unhappy_ result of being the odd one out?"

A million pounds vanished from Virgil's shoulders. They were listening. He could still win this.

But Thomas wasn't so easily moved. "I mean, yeah," he conceded with a built-in _but_ to his tone. Virgil resigned himself to yet another decisive loss. "I see the concern, but I don't think that should keep us from taking that risk. If it's not hurting me, or others, sometimes being the odd one out can be fun."

Virgil stared at him disbelievingly and bit back a scoff. "Speak for yourself," he muttered, barely any better than a growl. Bitter memories flooded back and he furiously tried to dam them back up. "Being the odd one out was my whole presence here, and it was _not_ fun."

"Aha!" Roman exploded.

"Jesus Christ!" Virgil whirled on Roman. "Can you people _warn me_ when you get one of your sudden epiphanies?"

"That is the crux of this issue," Roman continued like Virgil hadn't spoken. "Virgil is a little too familiar with rejection, and he's had his fill."

"What? No." Virgil's chest swelled with self-righteous defensiveness. Just because he didn't like waving through a window in Thomas' life didn't mean he couldn't suck it up and deal again if the situation called for it.

"He doesn't realize that sometimes standing out can feel outstanding!" Did Roman even remember he was standing _right there_? "And I would know." He puffed his chest a little too much at that last and Virgil resisted the urge to pop his fragile ego bubble in pure frustration.

There was just no way in hell they could ever get along, was there?

"Well, shoot," Thomas said, a contemplative expression on his face as he reassessed Virgil, as if in a new light. Virgil shifted under his scrutiny uncomfortably. "Maybe we need to make you feel included as a valued part of me so that you don't feel wrong for being different."

"Roman, that was...astute," Logan murmured, staring at Roman disbelievingly. "You're actually thinking cleverly today, which is unusual for you."

"I know!" Roman burst out, then stopped. "Wait, what?"

"TONKS!"

Virgil screamed, launched into the air, turned into a spider, and scurried under the stairs to hide while everyone else responded with their own displays of alarm.

Roman screamed and brandished his katana at Patton's face, only to stutter to a stop. "Jeez, I just almost took your… _whole_ face out." He gestured, and the katana vanished.

Logan furiously adjusted his tie. "Patton, I thought we discussed _suddenly screaming_."

Patton hung his head sheepishly. "Sorry, Logan."

"Wait—shit, guys, where did Virgil go?" Thomas whipped around while the others panicked, and Virgil felt their collective anxiety swell in his chest.

He forced himself back into his normal apparition with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, glaring around the room. "Fight or flight," he reminded. "I get out of dodge when you _scare me_."

Patton's eyes overflowed with tears. "I…I'm so sorry, Virgil. I didn't mean—"

Virgil stopped and softened, chuckling. "It's okay, Patton. I know you didn't mean anything by it." He faltered. "Wait, what _were_ you screaming about?"

"Oh!" Patton brightened instantly. "I was just thinking that's what your idea for your hair reminds me of, Thomas. Nymphadora Tonks from Harry Potter."

"HARRY POTTER!" Thomas exploded, and Virgil almost turned into a spider again. Thomas flinched. "Sorry, Virgil. I've really gotta—"

"'DID YOU PUT YOUR NAME IN THE GOBLET OF FIRE?'" Virgil had officially desensitized to the terrifying outbursts. He looked at Roman, whose expression looked like he'd marinated in bitterness for an hour. "Right?" He scoffed, and Virgil stared at him cluelessly. "That was such a stupid line translation between the book and the movie. Why would you—?"

Thomas cut him off with a wave of the hand. "Uh…not quite what I was getting at, but that was, um…that was great, Roman."

Roman's eyes flickered with embarrassment before he covered it up. "Oh, I know."

Thomas asked, "Virgil, do you remember the Harry Potter books?"

Virgil was surrounded by idiots, wasn't he? Well, except Logan. "Of course, I remember the Harry Potter books, Thomas. You're obsessed—and, _again_ —"

"We're you!" everyone chorused.

Thomas hunched his shoulders sheepishly for a moment and chuckled. "Right. Sorry." He looked at Virgil. "But those books gave us a _really cool_ sorting system to help people figure out where they fit in, remember?"

Virgil's expression wiped clean. He couldn't be serious.

But of course, Patton was already excited about it. "Oh!" he cried. "I can _sort_ of see where you're going with this, Thomas." He winked.

" _Hats_ off to you, Patton." Thomas winked repeatedly like he was having a localized seizure in his face. "Eh? E—"

But then Patton's entire demeanor shifted and his expression darkened. Virgil felt a stab of terror before he said, melodramatically, "Aragog: a ginormous spider in the Harry Potter universe."

**Virgil's world screeched to a halt and he stared dumbly at Patton as oceans and trains and steam-powered ships roared in his ears, drowning out everything else.**

**He'd always been so small, barely a little larger than his baby sister. Aragog could seamlessly disappear into Virgil's flat hair whenever he wanted to hide out with him. Virgil only named him after a giant spider because he thought it was ironic and cute for one of the smallest to get the most fearsome, famous name, and he always liked it. Virgil doubted he could classify under any one species of spider, with his hairy hourglass body of purple lines and spots. He was the suck-up of the bunch, perpetually insecure that Virgil loved the others more than him.**

**And now he was gone.**

"Hogwarts houses!" Roman cried suddenly, as if in a desperate bid to steer the conversation back on track. He flashed Virgil a worried glance, and Virgil ducked his face, hiding in his hood to wipe away tears.

"Right," Thomas said, checking his wristwatch. "In the books, the students get sorted into four different Hogwarts houses based off of the qualities that they exhibit."

" _Oh_ ," Patton chorused emphatically. "Yeah, that makes more sense."

Virgil forced himself to pay attention to the conversation again, blocking out the grief thick enough to choke him.

Logan looked annoyed. "Okay," he began, "so you're saying this magical, some might say, nonsensical talking headwear sorting system could be of use to us?" He fluttered his eyes a little in the most homosexual display of incredulity Virgil thought he'd ever seen. Logan did seem to excel at that.

"Well, yeah. Everyone's been sorting themselves into Hogwarts Houses since the books came out. It's a great way to feel like you _belong_ somewhere. Like everyone belongs to a piece of the pie, so to speak, but we're all part of the same…" Thomas shrugged and held air quotes. "—'school.'"

Logan looked like he was about to pop a vein, eyes slowly staining orange. "But the school's not real!"

"It's a metaphor, Erlenmeyer trash," Roman shot back, bristling with an orange glow.

Too late, Virgil realized this was a _minefield_ topic and the two Sides most likely to take issue with it were also historical rivals who fought like cats and dogs. This could not end well.

"So, what's the plan here?" Virgil cut in quickly. What could he say? He'd learned his lesson after the billionth time trying and failing to retire a topic with these guys. You entertained their crazy quickly and efficiently or it all blew up in your face.

"We're gonna sort you!" Thomas threw his arms wide with a bright smile.

Virgil couldn't even pretend that wasn't exactly what he expected. "Sort me?" he echoed dully.

"Well, sure!" Thomas was so enthusiastic, Virgil let his cynicism take a hit. He relaxed. "I'm a Hufflepuff, but you all act _very_ different from me on your own. Especially you and Logan, Virgil. Maybe sorting you all could help you feel a little more at home in this group." Thomas beamed at him, and Virgil felt a small, hesitant smile of his own creep across his face.

Virgil sighed heavily. He really _didn't_ want to ruin this for Thomas, so if he thought this could help them both…then Virgil would bite.

Virgil nodded. "Okay," he said, shrugging. "Let's do this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Only a couple paragraphs of angst in a whole update? Oh my goodness. I must have been replaced by pod people.
> 
> Don't worry. Next chapter cranks the angst up a little bit, even if it all ends well. You've still got about a week before I start pelting you with angst and leaving you off on an angsty cliffhanger while I figure out how to draft the sequel with hormones mucking up my everything.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil searches for a neat label. (2/3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst cranks up here. Virgil spends a little while feeling helpless, but it also resolves by the end. This a little longer of an update.

"I wish that I could be like the cool kids / 'cuz all the cool kids, they seem to fit in." ~ "The Cool Kids" by "Echosmith"

* * *

* * *

THOMAS _GLOWED_. "Great! Okay, so it may take a lot of deliberation, but I'm sure we can find all of you—"

Roman—in iconic Roman fashion—steamrolled gay over his host to gesture to himself, Patton, Logan and Virgil respectively. "Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin. Boom! Done." He struck a pose as if to await the thunderous applause.

It didn't come, unless you counted Thomas' dumbfounded cries. "Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa, _whoa_. Roman, seriously?"

Virgil scowled. "Why am I a Slytherin? What are the qualifications?" Had he wildly misremembered the books? That didn't add up at all.

…Right?

Roman didn't skip a beat. "Well, you're the…" He faltered and leaned in with a satisfied smile on his face, like he was proud of his deduction abilities and eager to share them. "Well, you're the dark and sinister one."

"Pump the brakes, Princey!" Thomas interjected aggressively, holding up his hands. "That is not what qualifies a Slytherin!"

Roman scoffed, suddenly wearing his insecurities on his cufflinks again. "Well, all the other houses are definitely taken by us, so it's the only one he could possibly fit into."

Virgil winced and shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching over. He tried to shut out the voice bouncing around his head. _Slytherin. Malfoy. Voldemort. Lestrange_. His mind filled with images of the villains—from the movies, from fanart of them online. Seven books inundated, cover to cover, with cruel, vindictive, manipulative, discriminatory, hateful people, all hellbent on oppressing a marginalized group of people and controlling the world. The voice multiplied and doubled, enough that he wanted to press the heels of his hands into his ears, sink to the floor, and scream until he couldn't hear the noise anymore.

After everything. All that work. All that loss. All that pain and effort. And still— _still_ —they only saw the villain.

"And that is a great example of what we are _not_ going to do with Virgil," Thomas said, and Virgil's head snapped back up to stare at him.

"I've done some thinking on this fantasy organization process," Logan began. "This, uh…" He waved his hand a bit, as if casting for the words. "Dobby Decimal System. Whether or not the results of quizzes that determine which Hogwarts house one belongs to are authentic, they _can_ reinforce one's sense of self."

What a fun, fantastical concept, Virgil thought bitterly. The idea of having a stable sense of self felt as unattainable to him as a Hogwarts acceptance letter.

"If this is necessary to help Virgil feel better about himself," Logan continued, "then I support it. Thomas, shall we commence?"

Virgil favored Logan with an appraising eye. He had been one of the first to see Virgil's merits, not that Virgil held too much faith he had any. But this charade—something that acted in direct opposition to his cool, calculated, emotionless and realistic attitude—was more than a rational argument in favor of maintaining a productive level of anxiety.

Did Logan think Virgil would risk Thomas' welfare ducking out again if they didn't make him magically feel better? He wasn't that selfish. All he cared about was Thomas; he'd left the first time because he thought it had been best for him, and he'd stay now because he _knew_ that was best. They didn't need to bend over backwards, compromising on their functions, just to perk him up.

Anxiety didn't _do_ perky. Neither did Fear nor Paranoia. If they wanted perky, they would have to look to a different side.

Thomas steamrolled ahead. "So…I guess, first up, you have the Gryffindors."

Again, with the posing from Roman—typical. "The brave ones!"

"Well…yeah," Thomas started, a dubious expression on his face, "but that's an oversimplification. They're also determined and chivalrous."

Virgil couldn't resist. He scoffed. "And _this_ is the one Roman thinks he's in?"

Roman squawked in outrage, but Thomas wasn't done. "Then there's Ravenclaw. Typically known as the wise and clever ones."

"Ah." Logan straightened, adjusting his tie and puffing out his chest. "This _is_ me, isn't it?"

Virgil supposed Roman wanted in on the fun of mocking people's choice of house, because he said, "The ones who think they're smarter than everyone else?"

Virgil could have saved him the trouble. Predictably enough, Logan responded with, "I don't _think_ I'm smarter than everyone else. I _know_ I'm smarter than everyone else."

Virgil rolled his eyes, but needless though this charade was, he had to admit it was fun to spectate the chaos.

"Then there's Hufflepuff, the loyal and friendly ones."

" _Ooh_ ," Patton cried, clapping his hands together and turning to Roman with lethal puppy dog eyes. "Is that what you think of me, Roman?"

"I mean, yeah," Roman said, almost dismissively. Virgil narrowed his eyes at him. _Watch it, Princey. I might be afraid of everything now, but that doesn't mean I can't scare you into staying dead for a few hours._ "You're the softest little puffball we got, padre."

Virgil ground his teeth together. "You don't have to be mean to him." Did Roman not understand how critical Patton was in holding the Unknowns at bay?

Until Patton surprised Virgil with: "Aw, thank you!"

He faltered, narrowing his eyes at Patton's expression. It flickered with something he didn't understand, but Patton wasn't anxious, so he had no means of spying on his thoughts to find out.

Not that he would do that anyway. Of course. Even if he _burned_ with curious worry.

But then Roman had to add insult to injury by gesturing pointedly at Patton and turning to Virgil. "See?"

Virgil glared at him.

"And then there's Slytherin," Thomas started, and Virgil braced himself. "They _do_ get a bad rep in the books for being the bad guys, _but_." Virgil hesitated, lifting his gaze to watch him. "They're mainly known for being ambitious, cunning, strong leaders."

Virgil didn't know whether to snort in disbelief that Roman thought he in any way fit that blueprint or deflate from disappointment. He supposed it _would_ have felt nice to have a neat house to fit into like the others. "But…that's not me."

"Ye—" Roman started to protest, only to crash to a stop and stare at Virgil, slack-jawed and disbelieving, like Virgil's audacity to _not_ be a Slytherin had singlehandedly shattered his entire worldview. "No," Roman said dumbfoundedly, turning away and posing thoughtfully. "What the heckity-heck?" Was he pouting? "Five abs and one peck."

Virgil did a double-take at that astonishingly _Remus_ -like visual. The effort to picture it broke his brain.

"What a visual." Logan's tone could either be horrified or approving, and they'd never know which.

"Just a little something I like to say when I'm confused, so that I'm not alone in that confusion. See? It works. So…Virgil is _not_ a Slytherin."

"Oh darn." Patton kicked at the carpet. Virgil's heart sank. "It was so close to being perfect."

Virgil averted his eyes to stare at the bannister. "Well, sorry to ruin that for you," he muttered bitterly, even as tears stung the corners of his eyes.

"You didn't ruin anything," Logan said, appearing sincerely befuddled by the statement, catching Virgil's gaze. Virgil thought he almost looked concerned.

"If you keep talking bad about yourself, I'm going to physically fight you!" Patton cried, and Virgil leaned back from his gusto. Hadn't he _just_ been disappointed that Virgil killed the four of a kind they had going?

"No, no," Thomas chided. "That is the opposite of helping, Patton."

"No one talks about my child like that," Patton said seriously.

Virgil's focus narrowed on _child_. He scowled at him. In what _universe_ did Virgil classify as a child? He'd been the first Side to be ostracized. He'd survived on his own for years before Deceit found him in his paranoid camp in Limbo. He'd fought his way through the mire of the Subconscious, both as Paranoia and _after_ , when he lived in constant fear of everything. He screwed his head on straight about right and wrong without anyone sitting him down to lecture him…more than once. When he made the decision to leave the only family he'd ever known for Thomas' sake, it had been the hardest, scariest choice of his life, but he _still_ made it.

Patton didn't _actually_ see him as a little kid, did he?

Thomas pacified Patton and then continued, "They are right, though, Virgil. I mean, this is why I think it's a good exercise. Maybe this will help me to look at my aspects from different angles. Maybe it's not so simple."

"Agh!" Roman stomped his foot like a toddler. "Why is it _never_ simple?"

"Yes," Logan said, clearly in affirmative response to Thomas' statement, not Roman's childlike demand. "For instance: you, Roman, sound more like a Slytherin." He gestured, and a green hat with a snake insignia appeared on Roman's head.

Oh, this was going to be _good_.

"What? I do not!" Roman looked ready to draw arms. Virgil prepared to bolt—maybe to run for cover, maybe to grab popcorn; he hadn't decided yet.

"Oh, so you don't think you're a strong leader?" Logan said. "You don't think you're cunning?"

When the pressure wasn't on Virgil to _be_ a Slytherin, something occurred to him. Those traits were oddly _complimentary_ toward Roman, especially coming from Logan. Roman had leadership qualities in that he bulldozed everyone in his path to _claim_ leadership, but Virgil wouldn't go far enough to call him cunning. Cunning required subtlety, sleight of hand, and a sly knack for getting under people's skin and making them think like you.

Virgil's mind's eye filled with images of yellow scales and a bowler hat. He shuddered.

"I'm not evil!" Roman protested.

Virgil felt a tug toward him and realized his anxiety was climbing. He forced himself, despite the _physical pain_ it caused, not to eavesdrop, but he wasn't even a mortal man. He couldn't resist, even though he knew it would make it worse. "Says who?" Virgil challenged, then winced when he caught a flash of a sentence: — _can't be evil like—_

He yanked himself out and back into the conversation.

"Slytherins are not all evil!" Thomas cut in, hands up. "Let's just get rid of that idea right now!"

"Well, okay, fine!" Roman said and then proceeded to say the one thing he knew would twist Logan in knots. "Patton seems more like a Ravenclaw to me!" He threw his arm dramatically at Patton, who found a blue hat fit snugly around his head a second later.

"That doesn't follow _at all_ ," Logan protested, the veins bulging on his forehead.

"Indubiously," Patton said, and Virgil was pretty sure he meant "indubitably," but he couldn't bring himself to correct him with that look on his face.

"Well, he's always the one coming up with those witty puns!"

"You call those _witty_?" Logan demanded as if disgusted, and Virgil considered turning into a spider again, grief be damned, just to bite him.

"You call those glasses?" Patton shot back, because unlike what Roman believed, he had every capability of handling problems himself.

Virgil smirked.

"Y…es?" Logan frowned at him. "I'm not sure if you're implying something—"

"I don't think they'll pick up. They don't have a cellphone. _Zing_!" Patton burst out laughing, and Virgil chuckled along with him, shrugging at Logan when he turned betrayed eyes to him.

"It's what you get, teach," he said. "Don't fuck with Patton."

Logan sucked in a deep breath. "I just need to walk this off. Excuse me."

Virgil scowled. "Wait, walk where? It—"

"Wait!" Patton cried. "I have another house for you!"

Logan faltered and turned back to him; eyes narrowed into slits. "A more fitting one than Ravenclaw? I'm sorry, Patton, but I highly—"

"GRYFINNDOR!"

Logan choked violently and ripped the red cap off his head, throwing it on the ground. "You see, Patton says statements like that you think _he's_ a Ravenclaw."

Virgil had to admit his own dubiety, but considering Logan just insulted Patton, he couldn't bring himself to challenge the assertion. Roman handled it for him. "Uh…and why is that now, Patton?"

Patton clasped his hands against his cheek and stared sweetly at Logan. "Because he's my hero."

Virgil snorted, and it just got better when Logan said loudly, while clapping between syllables, "We. Get. It. You're adorable."

Virgil wheezed and hit his knees from laughter. It was so much easier to enjoy the pure pandemonium when he knew no one would end up dead by the end of it. Roman and Logan both gave him a funny look. Thomas and Patton beamed at his joviality, and he didn't miss the weird wink they both exchanged.

Thomas stepped in to argue on Patton's behalf. "Patton may have a point," he said. "I mean, Hermione was a Gryffindor and she was the smartest of them all. Gryffindors are also known to have short tempers, which I think could apply to _both_ of you." He held one thumb out toward Logan and Roman each.

As if to reinforce his point, Roman shouted, "Oh, shut up!" while Logan shrieked, "FALSEHOOD!"

Virgil hissed, laughter dying in his throat while he leaned away from Logan's high-pitched outburst. "Jesus Christ, not this again," he muttered.

"Gryffindors are self-righteous and arrogant," Logan argued.

" _Oh_ ," Roman said. "Okay, Patton, I wasn't totally convinced before, but maybe Logan _is_ a Gryffindor."

Reluctant though Virgil was to agree with anything Roman had to say, he had to. "I do see that," he said, nodding approvingly.

" _Right_?" Patton gushed.

"Also, they're impulsive and have no regard for the rules," Logan countered with a hint of desperation in his voice. Virgil dumbly noticed a purple aura surrounding him. The tug was overwhelming this time. He fought it with everything he had, damming the urge up behind reinforced steel walls. "Does that sound like me?"

The steel walls shattered. _He's wrong_ , Logan was thinking passionately. _He has to be wrong. I'm nothing like him_.

Virgil wrenched himself back out again, despite the overwhelming compulsion and now the curiosity burning through him. Who was "him"? Who, exactly, was Logan so afraid of being like? Virgil tried to think of another Side that fit Gryffindor and came up empty except for Roman, but why would Logan _ever_ be afraid of being too similar to Roman? They were nothing alike.

Logan continued desperately. "And besides, that would—what? Leave Anxiety as Hufflepuff?"

"Virgil," he corrected dully.

"I'm sorry, Virgil," Logan amended himself as a yellow hat materialized on Virgil's head.

Aside from the flashbacks to a snake-faced manipulator, Virgil almost screamed at the way it hugged his head, ripping it off. "I don't do hats," he groused, and tossed it across the room to Patton, who caught it happily.

"You don't _all_ have to be in different houses," Thomas reminded as Patton shoved the hat over his head in place of the Ravenclaw one.

"Aw, but wouldn't that be nifty?" Patton said, and Logan snapped the now homeless Ravenclaw cap into his hands, fitting it atop his head almost like he'd reclaimed his comfort object. His anxieties eased, and Virgil frowned at him.

The pandemonium might be fun to spectate, but he had to wonder if he was surrounded by a bunch of Sides far subtler about their ensuing breakdowns than he had been—all of which would be ten times as catastrophic when they hit.

"You know…" Thomas considered Virgil carefully. "Hufflepuff makes a surprising amount of sense."

Virgil started and scowled at him. "How would _I_ be a Hufflepuff?"

"You're hard-working!" Patton chirped helpfully.

"Working hard to make Thomas parano—" Virgil felt it coming a mile off. His insides twisted and his head screamed. He recoiled, hoping maybe then he could lessen the blow when it landed. "—vigilant!" Roman screeched in a hard left. Virgil perked up to stare at him. Gratitude caught fire in his chest. "Paranovigilant. That's a word I made up just now. Do you like it? Paranovigilant! I'm basically Shakespeare!"

Then Virgil caught it: Logan and Patton were both glaring intently at Roman, almost as if daring him to say it. Roman emitted a soft purple glow, but less from fear than anxious shame, if the compulsion was anything to go by.

Virgil offered Roman a forgiving nod and then focused on the suggestion that sparked this mess. "I don't work that hard." And he'd been doing his best to work _less_. He really did want Thomas to have a life. It could be difficult not to overwhelm the ship and knock everyone out to sail it to safer waters. He'd always been a little domineering as a Side; it was the biggest reason why he'd been ostracized as Fear, and the trait that had stuck with him since childhood.

But Patton, apparently, had interpreted "hard-working" to be a compliment, even in his case, because then he chirped, "Oh! Hufflepuffs are also _modest_."

"If you consider self-deprecation modesty, then sure." Virgil smirked back at him.

Patton frowned. "What's that?"

"I talk bad about myself," he clarified through a shrug. He saw his mistake too late.

"I will physically fight you!"

Logan pivoted and recovered from the tangent smoothly. "Hufflepuffs are also known to be honest and you _certainly_ keep things 'one-hundred.'" He whipped out an index card. It had been a while since Virgil saw one of those.

"Oh." Thomas beamed. "That was nice, Logan."

"Yup!" Patton chirped. "Honest, patient and impartial."

"Impartial?" Virgil narrowed his eyes at Patton dubiously.

"Yep. They tend not to take sides unless given good reason to."

Virgil scoffed. "One thing I am _not_ is impartial. I'm always bringing up the cons to _anything_ you guys talk about."

"I don't think that's _exactly_ what Patton meant," Thomas tried to counter gently.

"I don't know," Virgil admitted, tugging his hoodie tighter around himself. "Plus, I'm hardly patient."

"No biggie!" Thomas said quickly, probably because he could feel Virgil's rising unease. "If that's not what you feel you are—"

"We can keep this magical mishmash going!" Patton cried excitedly. "Prince can be Hufflepuff!"

Hufflepuff robes appeared on Roman and his whole body jerked in alarm. "Okay, but this sorting has to make _some_ sense." He ground his teeth together in frustration.

Virgil rolled his eyes at him as Patton consoled, "Cedric Diggory was a Hufflepuff and he was a Triwizard Champion (before he died)." Virgil had to give him credit for the verbal parentheses. That took skill.

"So was Harry, and he was a Gryffindor," Roman grumbled back with his arms crossed. He aspired to new and improved levels of immaturity every day, didn't he?

" _And_ ," Thomas interjected, "Hufflepuffs are said to make the best companions."

Roman hesitated. "In a romantic sense?"

"Figures," Virgil grumbled.

"Why not?" Thomas told Roman with a wink.

"Hufflepuffs are also great _finders_!" Patton supplied.

Virgil considered that. "And you _are_ very good at finding new ways to insult me," he pointed out to Roman.

His expression crumpled. "No, hey!"

Virgil scoffed. "Not this time around, relax. I noticed the effort. You're good." He waved him off.

Roman relaxed. "Phew," he said, flicking imagined sweat from his brow. Roman would never even let imaginary perspiration bead there. It would mar his pretty face. "Well, Logan…" Roman narrowed his eyes. "You _could be_ the Slytherin of the group."

Logan faltered and glanced down at the green-striped tie around his neck. "Hmm. I can actually understand that." He ticked the traits off on his fingers. "Cunning, resourceful, a strong leader—"

"A certain disregard for the rules!" Patton interjected, and Virgil snorted into his fist. It was like everyone _wanted_ Logan to explode.

"What? No! That—that's Gryffindor." He laughed nervously.

"Yes," Thomas confirmed, "but _also_ Slytherin. Dumbledore did say that was a trait that Salazar Slytherin valued: 'a certain disregard for the rules.'"

"That was a _Gryffindor_ talking about a _Slytherin_ ," Logan stressed. "I spy an obvious bias."

"Yeah, but wasn't _Snape_ the one who said _Gryffindors_ have no regard for the rules?" Virgil asked. "If there's a bias with Dumbledore—who, by the way, _terrible_ human being; he literally groomed a kid to die for him—"

Roman squawked and turned blue in the face from outrage.

"—then there's _definitely_ a bias with Snape."

Logan's mouth flapped open to argue, only to slam shut. "Dammit," he muttered.

"While I've got the talking stick, Patton could be Gryffindor," Virgil suggested. Patton squealed when he summoned a Gryffindor polo shirt under his cardigan. He squealed in delight upon seeing it.

Virgil was met with a roomful of dubious expression, most of all from Roman. "Explain." Virgil could tell he was fighting to keep the bite out of his voice.

"Please," Logan said, studying Patton through narrow eyes.

"I don't know." Virgil shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly a lot less sure in his suggestion. "He's Thomas' heart. He just seems the most impulsive and reckless at times." _Plus, he's our first and last line of defense from the others._ "We're constantly working to rein him in." Too late, Virgil realized that could be interpreted wrong. "In a good way!" he added quickly.

"Good point," Thomas said, pointing at him and then getting awkward about pointing at him. "See, that was a good point, Virgil. Also, valid argument."

"Ooh," Patton said, apparently unbothered by Virgil's earlier statements, thank God. "Then you must be Ravenclaw."

A Ravenclaw tee appeared under Virgil's hoodie, but Patton didn't unzip it to show it off, which Virgil was grateful for. He did it for him, considering it hesitantly. "I mean…" He chewed his lip. "Maybe?"

"If anyone else was going to be Ravenclaw," Logan said, "I'd think it would be you."

Virgil faltered and looked at him in surprise. A blind, deaf, dumb man could tell how much this house meant to Logan, and how deeply he identified with it. More than that, he was protective of it; even coveted it. The idea that Logan could be comfortable with sharing that or _forfeiting that_ to Virgil…

He flashed back to that debate they had forever ago that Virgil catastrophically botched. He'd told himself Logan's compliments had been placations at best; why would _he_ actually think positively toward Virgil's intellect or anything else? All he did was get underfoot, mess up his careful schedules and throw his plans for a loop. Why would anyone value his suggestions, most of all the _embodiment_ of rationality and levelheadedness?

It hadn't been until that precise moment that Virgil believed what he'd said that day. He smiled.

"You're definitely a bit eccentric," Roman said, gesturing to his wardrobe, but it wasn't with any sardonicism.

"You're the common sense we _need_ ," Patton reminded, and Virgil winced a little at the memory of how badly he'd fucked things up when he ducked out.

"You're the reason I think through all _possible_ outcomes to any given situation," Thomas added with a growing smile.

"You've always been a savvy Sybil (Trelawney)." Again, with the audible parentheses. That couldn't be easy to do, let alone repeatedly.

For a moment—for just a _moment_ —the shirt felt good. It didn't chafe. The idea of being that valuable, being imperative in Thomas' decision-making, being a Side capable of solving problems...it felt amazing.

But it was also too good to be true.

The doubt set it, needling underneath the shirt. The chafing started, and Virgil pulled at the collar, despair flaring in his chest. "I don't know," he admitted, because he didn't want to shoot down Patton's idea when it had been the closest to _right_ of any of them. "I'm just the one who points _out_ the problems." He shrugged hopelessly at Patton. "Ravenclaws are the ones who actually _solve_ the problems."

"What are you talking about?" Thomas cried, dumbfounded. "You've _done that_ before!"

"By accident," Virgil countered. "Or by drawing upon information you already knew."

"That qualifies," Logan insisted.

"Does it?" Virgil demanded. "Or are you guys just trying to fit me in somewhere you know I won't fit?"

A sudden, heavy silence fell over the room like a thunderclap. Virgil closed his eyes. He hadn't even realized it at the time, but he hadn't agreed to this to feel better about the hair appointment or even just his place with the Knowns. He'd agreed to this because, for as long as he could remember, Virgil had been in Limbo. Neither here nor there. He wasn't an Unknown; he didn't plot in the shadows, fueled by bitterness because he wasn't the one receiving the credit for his contributions. He was dark, but he wasn't dark enough, or dark in the right way, for the others. He'd been _close enough_ for the longest time, but _close enough_ didn't mean he belonged.

And here, he was too abrasive, too melancholy, too bitter and dark to get along with the cheerful faces of all the Sides Thomas had _always_ accepted and worked alongside. He chafed against some of their restrictions, twisted himself to fit others. It hurt just holding himself back enough to be counted as a _team player_ , and that was the whole point, with being an accepted member of the Knowns. Cooperating with the team. Something he had never had to do when he ran with the lone wolves of the Subconscious.

Virgil was twilight: too light to be an Unknown, too dark to be a Known. Somewhere trapped in the middle, floundering in uncertainty and confusion and a tumultuous sense of self he didn't think would ever stabilize.

Was this really how it was _always_ going to be?

"So…" Thomas watched him sadly. "You're saying this is also an uncomfortable fit."

Virgil gulped and fought tears. "I don't think it fully sums me up."

Roman sighed heavily. "Perhaps you're right." He looked at Thomas. "We found certain traits that we can each relate to in the different houses, but…maybe it's best we stick with where we feel most comfortable."

"In that case…" Logan donned the full, elaborate Ravenclaw robes. "This feels the most comfortable for me."

Patton jumped into a Hufflepuff costume. "This feels best for me!"

Roman spun around to reappear in Gryffindor cloak and colors. "Yep, no surprise here." He popped his collar and preened.

Virgil looked around the room at all the smiley, contented faces of his friends, and he felt a suffocating feeling of _otherness_ weigh down on him. He'd tried so hard to belong here. He'd bent and broken to fit what they wanted—what Thomas _needed_. Then they told him he didn't have to, and they'd find a middle-ground; they'd find a way to make room at the table for him, even if he hadn't seemed to fit at first.

But the table was still too small. His chair, his accommodations—he was squeezing to fit into a too small opening, and he wasn't shaped right to do it. Too tall, too big, too lanky, too _something_. The Subconscious had never been his home, but the Conscious Mind didn't seem like it could fit the bill, either.

God, he just wanted a _family_. Why was that the one thing he couldn't find?

"Virge?" Thomas said softly. "How you feeling?"

Virgil sighed and hung his head. "I'm not sure."

"Well, uh…" Virgil glanced up to see Roman, deep in thought. He nodded, almost as if making peace with something. "We _don't_ all have to be in different houses. Does _Gryffindor_ feel best for you?" Roman waggled his fingers and Virgil donned the same uniform as the one he wore.

Unsurprisingly, it chafed like a bitch.

"One thing I _know_ I'm not is reckless," Virgil said, meeting Roman's earnest gaze. Something about that… _stuck_. He didn't understand it, but it didn't look like the face of someone who wanted a neat cubby to assign him.

It was the face of someone who knew _he_ wanted a neat cubby and wanted more than anything to help him find one.

Virgil hesitated and looked down. He summoned the Hufflepuff robes. "I'm not impartial," he murmured, "and frankly, I'm not very friendly."

"I will _fight you_ ," Patton grumbled.

Virgil summoned Ravenclaw robes next—the ones that _almost_ fit right, and could have so easily been the ones he settled on if it wasn't for that needling doubt in the back of his mind. "I'm a problem identifier," he said, "but _not_ a problem solver."

"That doesn't necessarily—"

Virgil looked up to meet Logan's eyes, and he stopped. He narrowed them, then nodded. Virgil didn't completely understand the gesture.

Until he did.

"Then…" Green robes that burned miserably against his skin came next. They hung on him like lead weights, like they were intent on dragging him down into hell. They were the robes Deceit would have wanted him to choose—the robes of the manipulator, of the snake in the grass, of the spy. They were the uniform he had forced himself to fit into when he was still working for him, still doing his bidding, and now, they felt like shackles chaining him to his past.

"Then there's what everyone expects me to be," Virgil muttered. He could barely keep the tears out of his face. " _Ugh_! But I don't _feel_ like an ambitious, cunning leader. I feel more like a play-it-safe, evasive… _worrier_."

He shook his head and the Slytherin robes disappeared. He couldn't bear another second of that burn. "So, what does this mean?" He looked at Thomas pleadingly. "I went into this hoping to make better sense of everything, but now…now I'm just more confused than ever."

Somehow, though— _remarkably_ —Thomas wasn't disheartened. "So, you don't fit into any of the houses perfectly. Big deal!" Virgil's head snapped up. "You know who could have been in Slytherin _or_ Gryffindor? Harry _Freakin'_ Potter."

"Harry freakin' Potter!" Roman exploded to the tune of Starkid, only to stop. "Sorry, I literally could not resist."

Logan groaned heavily before saying, "Hermione was going to be in Ravenclaw, but exemplified Gryffindor traits more."

" _Neville_ wanted to be in Hufflepuff because he didn't see the Gryffindor traits in himself at all!" Patton shot in with a brilliant smile on his face.

"You guys are making me feel _really good about my house_ ," Roman said. _"Thank you_."

"Point is," Thomas said, chuckling, "there are examples of people who toe the line between multiple categories, and they fit however they wanna fit."

Virgil hesitated. The frustration didn't lessen. "But I _don't_ fit, that's the thing." If he could _choose_ Ravenclaw without it feeling as wrong as his old getup as Paranoia, he would, but everything felt disingenuous. Like he was a constant lie, a farce pretending to be something he wasn't, no matter what he did.

"Says who?" Roman challenged.

"You could be a Ravenclaw with Hufflepuff tendencies," Logan suggested, and that _almost_ sounded right— _almost_. "A Slytherin with Gryffindor tendencies—wait, no, not that one."

Virgil chuckled despite himself.

"You can be Raphael _and_ Donatello," Patton volunteered, and all Virgil could think of was dressing up in a full Ninja Turtle costume. Some mental images could never be unseen.

"Wait, what? That's mixing metaphors. Let's not confuse the is—"

"A water-bender _and_ an earth-bender," Roman said, with the amateur movements to boot.

Logan ground his teeth together. "Can we just—?”

Thomas deepened his voice for a character impression. "You're a Greyjoy," he said, "and you're a Stark."

Logan shrieked like a banshee. "Flames!" he exploded, and everyone jumped to whirl on him as he gestured like a crazy person. "On the side of my face. Seething—seething fi—agh! Thomas, you don't even _watch Game of Thrones._ Not to mention, the _historical inaccuracies_."

Thomas started. "What—it's a _fantasy show_ , Logan."

"Heavily inspired by _hideously researched medieval lifestyles_!" Logan cried. "The weaponry alone is a _laughingstock_. The armor hails from at least five separate centuries during the medieval period, if not _longer_. Where are the fiefdoms? Where is the _common sense_? Isn't there a terrible winter everyone is terrified of? Why aren't they gathering supplies? They're going to starve or freeze or _worse_ , and they're too busy wasting time killing each other over a throne. It's _insane_! It's nonsensical and ludicrous! _Why_?"

Virgil—and everyone else—stared wide-eyed and disbelieving at Logan. Roman gaped. " _Jeez,_ " he muttered. "It's just a show."

Logan awkwardly cleared his throat and fixed his tie. "My apologies," he said. "I am simply…passionate when it comes to historical accuracy."

"When I film this as an episode," Thomas began carefully, "you deserve to know _that_ won't be part of it."

Logan ducked his head sheepishly. "I understand."

Virgil had the urge to pat him on the head, but then he realized what Thomas had just said. He scoffed. "Pretty disappointing episode, don't you think?" He sighed. "I think I'm getting it, you guys, really, I do, I just…" He shrugged. "I wish I was a little simpler to understand."

"Oh, who wants _that_?" Thomas asked. "No one is or _should be_ that simple. I mean, just the fact that my Hufflepuff self is comprised of so many different aspects and passions is amazing!" He gestured excitedly around the room, positively glowing with enthusiasm. "Figuring yourself out should be an adventure. Why should you be afraid to stand out a little? I think it's cool you don't fit as neatly into any categories as the others. It makes you _different_. It makes you _interesting_."

Virgil stared at him dumbfoundedly, and finally— _finally_ , after way too long—it clicked into place.

 _Family_ wasn't a synonym for _sameness_. It was just that: family. Just a group of people to come back to, to belong with, who didn't judge you for the things you couldn't control, who didn't expect more from you than what you could provide, but also didn't expect less. Someplace safe. Someplace with love.

Virgil looked down at himself. He pictured all the different robes on him, and then he cast them all into the fire.

"Well, then I'm not picking a house." He tugged his hoodie tighter around him, but this time, not as a comfort object. He looked around the room. He wasn't one for emotional displays, but if ever there was an acceptable time, it was this. "I don't need to belong to a specific Hogwarts house in order to belong with you guys."

" _There_!" Patton burst out, and then charged him for a massive hug. "See, kiddo? I knew you'd get it."

Virgil tensed in his arms, staring down at him, then stopped. "Wait a minute! You guys _planned this_?"

"You've been holed up in your room basically _nonstop_ since Thomas booked the appointment," Roman reminded him, smirking. "It wasn't exactly _hard_ to figure out how to get you to climb out of your self-deprecating nutshell."

"I cannot _believe_ you convinced me to go along with this charade," Logan groused, ripping off the robes.

"You—you all—" But Virgil couldn't bring himself to be mad. It wasn't like it had been in the Subconscious; he didn't doubt their motivations, and they hadn't done anything too drastic. They'd just steered the conversation toward a topic that could help him. "You all _knew_ I wasn't any of the houses?"

"We suspected none of them would be the _most_ ideal fit," Logan said, "if for no other reason than your—ahem— _anxiety_ would fret over every detail that didn't apply to you. We apologize if you feel manipulated; we just thought it would help settle your anxieties about both your place with us and Thomas'—Thomas, the appointment!"

Thomas launched seven feet into the air and checked his wristwatch. "Shit!"

Too late, Virgil's focus shifted to a whole new threat: the appointment Thomas only had thirty minutes to get to in rush hour traffic. " **Get your ass moving, Sanders**!" he ordered. " **If you're late, they'll all hate you and your hairstylist will deliberately give you a terrible dye job to punish you and you'll look like a hot gay mess for months.** "

Thomas shrieked and booked it out the door at Mach Ten. Logan looked at Virgil as they all slid out back into the Conscious Mind. "Thank you," he said. "Thomas is terrible about his appointments." He leaned in. "I made sure he deliberately misremembered it for fifty minutes earlier."

" _Nice_." Virgil high-fived him.

"I'm so proud of you, kiddo," Patton said, giving him another hug.

"You were on _fire_ today," Roman told him. "I think those were some of your sickest burns yet." He held out a fist to bump, and Virgil complied, chuckling disbelievingly. He rolled his eyes.

"Okay, everyone! Celebratory dinner! To the dining room!"

Patton and Roman walked off talking _Harry Potter_ lore and Logan stayed behind to look at Virgil. "I meant what I said, you know," he told him. "You would make a quite fitting Ravenclaw."

Virgil smiled at him. "I might take you up on that someday, yet." He bumped his shoulder. "C'mon. If we stall, Patton'll—"

" _Dinner_!" came an insistent cry from the kitchen.

"Told you." Virgil said, and Logan laughed as they hastened for the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of fluff with very light angst, guys, and then, it's time for the cliffhanger. Mwahahahaha!
> 
> Okay, so there are two chapters after the third part, but eh. I felt like being weird.
> 
> Also, would you guys like a little companion short to this from an "alternate universe" where Virgil keeps his pet spiders and shows them to the Knowns and helps cure Patton's arachnophobia. I swear to God it probably wouldn't be angsty. One person already mentioned that they'd like that, but I'd like to get some more feedback before I start straining my brain to think of an idea and write it.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas dyes his hair, the Sides get costume changes, and everyone engages in a healthy dose of pure chaos for the soul. (3/3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is...so chaotic. Just pure chaos.
> 
> Warnings: There's a brief mention to the breakup in here and some feral throat-related threats, but it's all in good humor, promise. Brief callback to the spiders because the grief is still pretty recent, bolded as per usual.

"This is the road to ruin and we're starting at the end." ~ "Alone Together" by _Fall Out Boy_

* * *

* * *

THE SIDES FLITTED AROUND THOMAS AFTER HE FINISHED DYEING HIS HAIR, each one with a different, enthusiastic reaction.

"What a brilliant, iridescent display!" Roman exploded.

" _Pretty_!" exclaimed Patton.

"It looks like Barney's unshaven armpit!" Logan flailed.

Thomas just squealed quietly on his way out to car, unable to suppress a quick happy dance at his car door, punching the air and leaping.

"You look so stupid right now," Virgil informed him through a giant smile. He couldn't help it. He buzzed.

"AH-HA!"

Virgil leapt fifty-feet into the air and landed on Thomas' hood. He really had the most overactive imagination in the world if he could follow them carrying on like this around him. Virgil hissed.

"Ah, Roman, you ruined it." Patton pouted.

Virgil scowled. "Ruined what?"

Thomas climbed into his car and the Sides relocated to the Mind Palace while he fired up the engine and backed out of his parking space. Grateful for the brief distraction, Virgil hopped up onto the couch and crouched over the cushions, arms draped over his knees.

Patton and Roman flitted about, excitedly chattering about the dye job, while Virgil spectated with growing amusement—and elation. Thomas' face broke out into another expansive smile, and he squealed quietly behind the wheel. He slipped a CD into his stereo and jammed to "You're Welcome" from _Moana._

Virgil chewed his lip and vibrated on the couch, suffocating a squeal in the back of his throat. Patton must have caught something weird about him out of the corner of his eye, because he snapped around to face him and covered a giant smile. A low, keening, endeared whine leaked out anyway.

Virgil hunched his shoulders. " _What_?" He looked around at everyone staring at him. " _What are you all staring at_?"

Roman bit his lip. "Oh yeah," he said. "You _hate_ the purple."

" _What_?" Virgil's hand shot up to touch his head of hair. "I kept it—"

Roman grinned and snapped his fingers. A mirror appeared, hovering in front of Virgil's face. Pale skin, dark circles, brown hair, grey hoodie. Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

Virgil scowled at Roman. "Hilarious, Princey."

Roman threw his hands in the air and turned his back to him. " _Ugh_! I can't even with you right now!"

Patton swatted his arm lightly. "Be _nice_ , Roman. Maybe he really doesn't know."

"Considering Virgil's flagrant disdain for falsehoods, I find it significantly unlikely he _is_ aware of the phenomenon," Logan said, then faced Virgil, fixing his tie. Virgil tensed. "We have observed that when Thomas grows excited in a nervous capacity, your eyeshadow changes color from black to violet."

Virgil launched off the couch and landed on its feet. " _What_?" If he thought about it, he _had_ glimpsed something like that in his mirror shortly after being accepted. He just hadn't thought about it beyond that. Apparently, that had been a mistake.

Logan nodded. "Roman observed it first while we rehearsed for the Q & A video. We observed it after that when we first accepted you, and it just occurred again now. It appears that even the slightest introduction of non-positive anxiety turns it back to black."

Virgil's mind filled with Amy Winehouse's vocals, and he shook his head harshly. " _What_? How? _Why_?"

"It appears that we are each correlated with a color of the rainbow," Logan said. "Patton is blue, I am indigo, Roman is red, D—"

Patton coughed loudly. Virgil's shoulders hunched more.

Logan winced and fixed his tie again. "And you of course know the others," he said instead. "The only color unaccounted for is—"

"You!" Roman cried, whirling. "You're violet!"

Virgil stopped and looked down at his dark grey hoodie, frowning deeply. He'd always been smoky, ashy colors—blacks and dark greys. He stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the Unknowns, who had each embellished their costumes with bright, flashy colors. He blended into the shadows of the Subconscious better than any of the rest of them.

But then again…how many times had he felt compelled toward a Side when they glowed purple? How much of his room in the Conscious Mind had accented itself in violet without his behest? If he was honest with himself, how much did he _really love_ Thomas' new hair?

"Oh fuck," Virgil said.

"Indeed," Logan approved.

"Language," Patton chided.

"Hypocrite," Roman teased.

"Asshole," Virgil retorted.

" _Language_ ," Patton insisted.

They all exchanged a look and burst out laughing—well, Virgil, Patton and Roman burst out laughing. Logan snorted and held his breath to stop.

"But my eyeshadow doesn't _actually_ turn purple, though, right?" Virgil bit his lip.

Roman smirked. "You look like _such_ a diva."

Virgil threw a pillow at him and Roman pelted him with confetti. Logan removed himself from the bloodless battlefield with a jar of _Crofter's_ and some crackers as Patton declared a pillow fight and they tackled each other.

Virgil didn't even scream. He was too busy laughing.

* * *

Thomas called everyone when he got home and could properly freak out over and discuss his hair.

"I see a little peri-twinkle in your iris," Patton gushed. "Two shades of purple!"

" _Barney's unshaven armpit_ ," Logan insisted, although most of the protest had gone out of him. Virgil patted him consolingly on the back, unable to suppress his snickers. "You mock me."

Virgil nodded gravely. "I have no choice. You should see yourself right now. You look _so pathetic._ "

Logan huffed and crossed his arms.

"It is a marvelous, iridescent display!" Roman threw his hands into the air with a brilliant smile, distracting Virgil from his mockery. "I still say we can go even bigger! Even _more_ colors next time! Full rainbow!"

" _Hell no_." Virgil yanked his hoodie up, shuddering. "I can live with this, but there is no way in _hell_ I'm going along with _rainbow hair_. _Fuck_ no."

Thomas paid no attention to Virgil's griping and just laughed giddily. "Guys, it looks _so good_!"

Roman had, of course, married himself to the idea of rainbow hair, styling off the style as if to show Thomas how good he would look in it—despite Roman's whole thing being a distinct inability to look bad in _anything_. Patton switched to the same shade of purple on Thomas' head, but Virgil and Logan had opted to stay with their natural, _sane_ shade of brown.

Even if a part of Virgil _really_ wanted to crack and go purple, too.

"Okay, guys, we have _got_ to get you new costumes for the next season on the show and I am _so_ inspired right now," Thomas said. "Roman, work with me."

Roman brightened like Thomas had just told him they'd landed Kristoff in the _Broadway_ production of _Frozen._ He struck a pose and thought deeply. "Hmm, let's see…" He gnawed on his lip and then snapped his fingers, perking up. "I've got it!"

Before Virgil knew what had happened, Roman spun in place, disappeared, and then reappeared in a modified, fancier version of his costume, with gold embellishments _everywhere_ , many of which looked _way_ too expensive to ever replicate with Thomas' budget constraints. It looked good, but Virgil stopped breathing at the _thought_ of how much money and time it would cost.

"Ooh!" Thomas and Patton cried.

"Unrealistic." Logan shook his head.

"And you'd fuck that up _so bad_ if you tried to make it yourself," Virgil pointed out.

Thomas pouted. "Okay, yeah, good point. A little _simpler_ , Roman."

Roman pouted and jumped through a few more iterations—a few of which looked even grander than the first one—until arriving on the winner: subtle gold accents on a top better-fitted to Thomas' frame, with a neater red sash and a shield emblem on his shoulder of mottled red and gold.

" _That_ will work," Logan said. "And..." He blinked. "You know, it's not the worst thing you could have come up with, Roman."

"Thank—wait a minute!"

"Ooh," Patton awed. "New emblem thingy." He poked it.

"Prince-two-point-oh-my-goodness," Thomas said, snapping appreciably.

"Not bad, Princey," Virgil said. "I mean, somehow even _more_ extra than it used to be, but not bad."

Roman preened under the compliments and puffed out his chest. "It's not as elaborate as I would like, but I thought it would be nice."

"So, what about you guys?" Thomas turned around the room excitedly, rubbing his hands together. "Inspired any? Thinking about any cool changes?"

Logan considered, then changed into a stripped black and blue tie Thomas had in his closet, as well as donned a black polo with a small, nondescript cartoon logo on the breast: a brain wearing glasses. "There. Nothing too elaborate. A nice, simple logo change, clear and to the point."

"Ooh!" Patton applauded and then snapped into light blue polo shirt with a spectacled heart on _his_ chest. He had a darker grey cardigan or…something tied around his shoulders. "Hey! Hey, Logan! Matching logos!"

"Wha—no! That's not—" Logan stopped. "Is that your cat onesie around your shoulders?"

Patton stuffed his hands in the sweater paws and turned his adorable puppy dog eyes up to maximum. "Maybe..."

Logan pinched his sinuses. "That will not suffice."

Patton pouted.

"Let him wear the onesie or I swear to God I will rip out your throat," Virgil told Logan, completely straight-faced. Everyone stopped dead and stared him. Virgil hunched his shoulders. " _Affectionately._ "

" _Virgil_!" Patton exclaimed, scandalized.

"How does one affectionately rip out someone's throat?"

"With flowers?" Roman suggested.

"Virgil, please do not rip out Logan's throat," Thomas said pacifyingly, looking more than a little freaked.

It dawned on Virgil a little late how _Unknown_ that had sounded of him and he winced hard. "Sorry, guys," he said. "I, uh...still unlearning some of those old habits."

"And we're still learning to accept your..." Thomas cast about for something to say.

"Eccentricities?" Logan suggested.

"Quirkiness!" Patton chirped.

"Insanity," Roman said confidently, and Virgil summoned a pillow from the Conscious Mind living room and chucked it at his head to a chorus of offended squawks and flailing.

"All...that aside," Thomas began, "Patton, I love you and your weirdness and your masochistic love of cats—"

"Allergies shouldn't hold you back from your dreams, Thomas," Patton said earnestly.

"Patton," Virgil said as calmly as he could manage, "you know I think you're great, but if you put Thomas in the hospital because he spent too much time with cats and we all end up homeless and dead because of hospital bills I'm going to be _very_ upset with you."

"I curb Patton's eccentricities and you threaten a non-medical removal of my trachea, but Patton tries to encourage Thomas to potentially put himself in the hospital by abusing his physical health and you threaten increased displeasure?" Logan blinked disbelievingly.

"You can handle the threats and probably kick my ass if I try anything, so they're basically empty," Virgil pointed out, "but Patton bursts into tears if Thomas so much as swats a fly."

As if to support Virgil's point, Patton teared up. "They didn't ask to get _murdered_!"

Logan blinked once more. "Touché."

"I'm not wearing the cat onesie in the show!" Thomas burst out, throwing his arms in the air, and Virgil recoiled and hunched his shoulders. "But I'm keeping the gag in the finished episode, so...just...God, it worries me how chaotic my brain is."

"Truly astonishing how you haven't starved or worse with how distractible you are, Thomas," Logan agreed. "Also, is no one going to acknowledge that Patton _stole my design_?"

"It's called _taking inspiration_ , Logan," Roman told him, joining Virgil on the Protect Patton At All Costs team.

But then Virgil saw the flash of orange in Logan's eyes, and the flicker of frustration and pain, and he chewed his lip. Patton might have been his first friend in the Conscious Mind, but Logan had been his second—and, at least for a little while, his best. "Aren't you and Patton—what'd you call them?" Virgil asked. "Foils? In the show and...kinda in general. You're all logic and he's all feeling. You're like mirror images of each other. Kinda makes sense from a meta standpoint why you'd have similar costumes." Virgil stopped. "Maybe. Possibly. I don't know. I'm not the smart one."

But the argument had successfully taken the wind out of Logan's sails and he let out a sigh of relief. "And _this_ is why I maintain you would make an excellent Ravenclaw," he told Virgil.

"I thought we agreed I didn't need a house?" Virgil smirked.

"If you ever change your mind," Logan clarified, "and good memory."

"Oh God," Roman deadpanned. "The nerds are multiplying."

"Roman, be nice," Patton chided.

Virgil rolled his eyes fondly and rolled back on his heels, leaning against the banister to spectate the chaos. He used to think the Conscious Mind was all sunshine and rainbows and boring, sparkly peace, but he honestly couldn't say he minded being wrong about it. Now that he was part of the chaos, he had to admit it was nice that there was never a dull moment with the Knowns.

He surveyed the room and remembered the track they'd been on earlier: switching up their costumes for the second season. All of the sudden, Virgil got an intense, brilliant idea for his popping up in his head like a weed. Instantly, he loved the design concept, and instantly, he felt a surge of anxiety at the thought of possibly being expected to share it with the group.

Thankfully, the chaos didn't look ready to die down any time soon.

"Have you taken a selfie yet?" Roman demanded.

" _Of course_ ," Thomas groused. "What do you take me for, an amateur?"

"How _many_ selfies have you taken?" Roman countered. "Because you can always take more."

"You should text Joan and Talyn and Valerie and Terrence and Quil and—" Patton continued listing off friends urgently while Thomas frantically typed out their contacts on his phone to send a group text of his new 'do.

"Or you could simply post to Twitter and Instagram," Logan pointed out. "That might be simpler."

"That's step three!" Roman yelled at him, waving him off urgently. "And you need the _best_ caption. Brainstorm with me. It's gotta be snappy and smart and witty but you've gotta play it cool because what if your future husband sees you with your glorious new hair and just _must_ meet you? First impressions are everything when you wanna get married, Thomas!"

"Make it a joke!" Patton chirped. "Ooh, a pun! The fans love your puns! It'll make them smile."

"Is a pun _husband-material_ , though?" Roman challenged.

"Not everything is about Thomas' love life, Roman," Logan said, massaging his temples.

"Like you'd know!"

Logan just gestured jerkily in confusion.

Virgil glanced across the way to see the light and glee flicker on Patton's face uncertainly, dimming and then reviving a second later, like a light bulb that kept flickering. A similar battle warred on Thomas' face—grief mixed with loneliness mixed with hope.

Virgil knew that train was bound to go off the tracks any day now, but he couldn't bring himself to ignore it in favor of accountability and honesty, not when his center and best friend looked that pained. "Weren't we figuring out a show thing?" he asked loudly.

"Oh!" Thomas put his phone away. "Right! Sorry, Virgil. Okay, your turn."

"Ooh!" Patton cried, jumping up and down and frantically clapping. "Yes! Yes! Virgil, I wanna see your new costume! I bet it'll just much of a cool cat as you are."

Logan frowned and whipped out his index cards, shuffling through them frantically. "Can you call clothing a cool cat? Wait, let me find—"

"Don't overthink it, teach," Virgil tried to no avail, as Logan started throwing index cards over his shoulder to thin out the stack in search of the correct one. He really did have too many of those.

But then Virgil processed the expectant eyes on him—Roman's subtle smirk, Patton's wide, excited eyes, Thomas' rapt attention—and his everything ground to a screeching halt, because _oops, that hadn't been part of the plan._ "Uh..."

"C'mon, Virgil!" Patton encouraged. "We've all changed ours! Now it's your turn. _Pwease_?" Patton turned up the puppy dog eyes.

Virgil whined. "Oh shit. I...do I _have to_?" He gnawed his lip. "I mean, it's so many changes. I _just_ told you my name."

"No, no, you don't have to," Roman pacified quickly, waving his hands. "We just thought you might like to. But if you don't want to—"

"Actually, I…" Virgil scraped his teeth over his lip. If he'd been real, he would have left it bloody and raw. He vibrated in place, ducking his face, viscerally aware of everyone's expectant gazes locked on him. He took a deep breath. "I actually had this idea, but it's a _little_ out there."

"Go ahead," Thomas encouraged. "I mean, if you don't like it, you can always try another or just change it back."

That settled a smaller thread of anxiety, but he couldn't shake the fear everyone would think it was stupid, even in light of their recent revelation. "I'm not sure how realistic it is for you to be able to do," Virgil said.

Thomas arched an eyebrow. "Something tells me it's gonna be a lot less difficult to execute than Roman's."

Virgil couldn't argue that. "Well, no, but you're gonna be working overtime just making his."

"I can tone it back!" Roman said hastily. "Find a middle-ground."

Virgil faltered at that. "Seriously?"

Roman shrugged. "I can't hog _all_ the spotlight." He flicked his imaginary long locks over his shoulder. "Even if I _am_ far more handsome than any of you."

Logan strangled a scream. "We have the same face!"

Virgil scoffed at their antics—he couldn't see this getting old any time soon—before mustering a deep breath. "All right," he said. "But before I do this, I should…probably confess."

He willed his hair to turn purple, snapping a new, vibrant hoodie into place of his old one. Random, uneven jet-black and purple patches made it up, with pure white thread tying it all together. He'd never be quite as bright as his true family naturally, but that didn't mean he couldn't adopt some of their white flare.

Virgil shrugged loosely and smirked. "I kind of dig the purple."

" _Whoa_." Thomas gaped.

"That design." Logan gestured. "I am surprised, Anx—pardon me, Virgil. I do believe that is quite feasible for Thomas and the team, yes."

" _Definitely_." Thomas winked at Roman. "Get on _his_ level."

Virgil braced for Roman's outrage at the jab, but he just held up his hands as if in surrender. "That is…magnificent." Virgil's jaw dropped. Was Roman, overachieving, egotistical, insecure princely wreck, complimenting _him_ on a creative decision? Even after he'd mocked his? But then Roman ruined it, because of course he did. "How you've managed to become _even angstier_."

Virgil rolled his eyes. He suppressed a smile. "Whatever."

"No!" Virgil arched an eyebrow. Roman waved his hands frantically. "No, no, if that's what you want to, uh…rock, then you _rock it_ , sir."

 _Oh God,_ Virgil thought. _The secondhand embarrassment is pure murder._ _Stop._

Roman didn't stop. "Who needs a Hogwarts house when you have your own, uh…your own…hog…wild…style?" Firetrucks weren't as red as Roman's face.

Virgil arched his other eyebrow high up into his hairline, too. "You good?"

"I don't even know what I'm saying anymore." Roman buried his face in his hands.

Virgil chuckled. "Nah. I guess it is, uh…pretty 'hog-wild.'" He rolled his eyes and Roman brightened.

"Wonderful," Logan said. "Well, I hope this helps you feel a little more like you belong with us, Virgil."

He smiled gratefully at him. "Yeah."

"Honestly, great new style, Virgil," Thomas said as the others slowly slid out.

Virgil shook his head fondly, tucking his hands into his pockets and shrugging. "Thanks. Now I feel like as much of a weirdo as the rest of these guys."

"That's good," Thomas said, then winked. "You fit right in."

Virgil laughed brightly. "See what you did there. Nice little 'bring it around full circle.' That was cute."

"Yeah, I couldn't help myself." Thomas waved goodbye, and Virgil slid out into the Conscious Mind for a _second_ celebratory dinner, because _of course_ , there was a second one.

* * *

Later, Thomas started filming the last clip for the Sanders' Sides video—his farewell to the fans—while Virgil completed the finishing touches on his room. He'd redecorate in a little for Halloween, but he wanted to figure out his normal layout before he did.

" _If any of you feel like you don't fit in, that is okay."_

**Virgil decided against including any spidery decorations. Logan wouldn't gift him Char until Christmas, and the _idea_ of seeing anything spiderlike in his room was more pain than he could bear.**

**He knew his pets weren't real. A little focus and a couple snaps of his fingers, he'd have new ones—even identical ones to the old. But it wouldn't be the same. Charlotte, Aragog, Anansi, Kumonga had been his friends, his steadfast companions since his earliest days in the Subconscious. They were more his family than Deceit, Rage or even Remus had ever been. Replacing them would be worse than sacrilege—it would be betrayal, and he had already betrayed them enough.**

" _It's also okay if whatever Hogwarts house you identify with doesn't perfectly embody you as an individual."_

He dusted around the carpet. It _insisted_ on accumulating dust. It drove him crazy. He wanted it to look like an abandoned, potentially haunted house; he didn't want it to _be_ an abandoned house.

" _There are many ways to look at ourselves and figuring ourselves out can be an ongoing thing for many of us."_

Virgil did a onceover of the room at last, just to see if he was satisfied. He noticed the spider curtains—his heart twisted, yet again, but he shoved it aside—gaped a little strangely. He sighed in quiet frustration and headed over to fix them.

" _Try to embrace the mystery that you are: all the things that help you relate to others and all the things that make you stand out."_

He felt it the second his fingers touched the fabric, and he launched out of its gravity with a gasp. He stared, heart hammering.

"No," he breathed.

" _Until next time, take it easy guys, gals, and non-binary pals."_

Virgil ripped the curtains wide to stare at it in horror: a dark stairwell leading down into the bowels of the Subconscious, calling to him in a siren's lullaby. His heart hammered against his ribs as he threw the curtain back over and pushed a large, heavy wardrobe into place in front of them, stumbling back.

 _They can't get through_ , Virgil told himself. _They can't reach us. We're safe._

Thomas and him were safe.

" _PEACE OUT!"_

They had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...
> 
> [insert gif of Belt from _The Croods_ here] DUN DUN DUN!


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It started with a doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home stretch, guys!
> 
> Okay: recommendation, go back to Chapter Four and reread that last big section with the Halloween stuff. It'll help a little bit with reminding yourself of things in this chapter.
> 
> We actually need a couple legit trigger warnings this time. It's been a while since we needed that.
> 
> Warnings: Discussion of breakup, some of the psychological consequences of gaslighting, discussion of lying to a partner and close friend, Remus-stuff from DWIT, _lots_ of severely anxious, extremely irrational thought bordering on severely mentally ill, hallucinations, Deceit is an ass about the spiders for a moment

"The walls start breathing. / My mind's unweaving.  
Maybe it's best you leave me alone."

* * *

* * *

Virgil scurries from wall to wall in his room as the walls bleed around him like grey-black watercolor, muddied but shaping shadows into penny-coated ghosts Virgil could choke on.

 _It started with a doorway_ , he thinks as his heart folds over and slots itself into the tangle of innards left by hours of bitter contemplation.

How long has he spent in here, reflecting over past mistakes, trying to identify the singular thread that unraveled it? What did he think would happen if he did? What's done is done; Logan would testify that there is no scientific means to rewind the clock. What is past will always be in the past, but when the future looks so bleak, Virgil thinks they ought to focus on finding a way.

It started with a doorway leading deep into the bowels of a hell Virgil had turned his back on, and even now, that doorway taunts him. It sings to him a mutated siren's song that does not seduce him but disgusts him, and from that disgust bubbles up a sick kind of curiosity. If he stepped through, what would happen? Would he uncover the many secrets Deceit harbors close to the vest? Could he save Thomas from a life of amoral debauchery? Could he fulfill his function as his protector, or would his darkest roots claim him yet?

It started with a doorway; this spiral of anxious thought so total that thought itself is no longer a concrete thing, but rather a dizzying cascade of impressions, none of which Virgil can find purchase on. It's been like this since Remus became Known to Thomas; either intrusive memories or whirlwind thoughts swirl through his mind, and now he thinks he might puke black goo again.

It started with a doorway, and then it worsened with a duke. A duke Virgil had never known as The Duke, not really. Remus had borne the title even when they were children; one of the first ways to differentiate him and Roman, deemed insufficient. Virgil isn't sure why it was deemed insufficient. Virgil doesn't care.

It started with a doorway hidden behind a dark, ominous wardrobe now covered in chains, anchored in place and reinforced in case Deceit brings a battering ram. If he does that, he brings a battering ram to a nuclear war, because Virgil will blow them all to hell if it means keeping that snake at bay.

It started with a doorway; this descent into madness Virgil does not know how to pull the brakes on, and he isn't certain he should. The madness keeps him alert, primed for the next attack.

It started with a doorway; Thomas' resurgence of distrust, disgust, hatred for him. If he had never found that doorway, the others could not have found Thomas. If they hadn't wormed their ways into his ear, then Virgil never would have told him the truth. Why did he tell him the truth? Is he a fool? Is he a masochist? How can he protect Thomas from the demons beyond the veil of his mind if Thomas rejects _him_ again, too?

It started with a doorway, and now Virgil's fight or flight instinct is screaming, and he wants to choose fight, but his body is forcing flight.

It started with a doorway, and it continued into a cascade of memories the dam can no longer hold.

It started with a doorway, and Virgil isn't sure where it stops.

* * *

It was pure pandemonium in a sparkly world of nostalgia and whimsy, and Thomas had just buried himself six feet deep in gay manure calling his ex because Roman was as sane as an escaped inmate on seven cups of caffeine.

" _Why did you hang up_?" Roman shrieked, flailing about like a maniac while Virgil burrowed deeper into his hoodie, groaning and utterly mute from overwhelm.

"Virgil told me to!" Thomas protested, gesturing wildly in all directions in a way that meant nothing whatsoever.

"Why did you _listen to him_?"

"He was _loud_!"

"Higitus Figitus, I'm getting sick of this!" Roman gripped his hair and messed its perfectly styled swoops all to hell.

"No, no, no, no," Patton chanted, bouncing frantically, and Virgil could do nothing to assuage his anxiety buried this deeply in his own.

"What do I do now?" Thomas demanded.

"We've got a sloppy situation here," Patton whined.

"Oh!" Roman exclaimed, and Virgil knew that could never mean anything good. "The backup idea! Text him!"

 _No_ , Virgil wanted to scream. _That will just make it worse._

"Text him _what_?" Thomas demanded, because at least Virgil could still influence him some. This was all Logan's fault. How could he _abandon them like that_?

"Uh…" Roman cast his hands about desperately. Virgil was choking on everyone's anxiety and this wasn't even _his room_. "Tell him you butt-dialed him!"

 _A lie_ , Virgil thought, and tried to object, but he couldn't speak.

" _What_?" Thomas stared at him with outraged incredulity. "A butt-dial? _Really_?"

"Look, I'm thinking off the fly here, Thomas, and you _do_ have a bodacious backside."

He might as well be _begging_ Deceit to show up. _Stop discussing him_ , Virgil thought, and through sheer miracle, managed, " **No.** " That was all he could do and he was mute once more, but it was enough.

"Stop," Thomas told Roman, but Roman wasn't stopping.

"I mean, that thing has a mind of its own."

"I am _not_ gonna lie to him."

"Then let your tush do the talking." Roman wiggled and Virgil could have cut him in half with his own katana.

" _What_?"

"Let your bottom do the bluffing," Roman went on like an utter dumb-ass. "Keep your lips locked, let your cheeks and hips talk."

Thomas held out a cautioning finger. "My hips do _not_ lie, Princey."

"I'm just saying you have a very persuasive posterior. I'm so sorry. I can't stop." Roman held the sides of his head.

"Now, Roman," Patton began sternly, and _finally_ , Virgil thought, _thank God_ , "lying is wrong."

Virgil could have kissed Patton in relief, but then Thomas said something Virgil thought he would never hear him say, and it scared him to death to hear it. "Yeah, that's a Side of myself I'd _prefer_ not to feed into."

Virgil stared at Thomas in horror, and he thought, maybe, in the shadow behind him, he could see the snake unhinge its jaw—maybe to laugh, or maybe to swallow them whole.

* * *

Virgil rakes his fingernails down his face, doubling forward and sinking to his knees as the memories overwhelm him.

* * *

Thomas had never been so stupid in his life, but he'd also never been this desperate. Joan was everything to him; if he lost their friendship, he would lose himself, but he had fucked everything up too royally to turn back from.

And Patton wasn't acting like Patton.

"Oh good," he cried when Logan entered the fray. "Logan! Everyone's favorite character!"

Virgil frowned at him. Patton was enthusiastic, but with a situation like this, after the last fiasco that had just gone down in his room, Virgil didn't know how well they could trust this—especially when the enthusiasm was this pronounced and almost…cartoonish.

For some reason, Virgil was distinctly reminded of another time in a worse place, long before Virgil had ever found a home in the Conscious Mind or even known to question the one he'd always had.

"Well, that's...very kind of you, Patton." Logan fixed his tie and blushed, preening some. "And to ease your apparent confusion, I will review last night's proceedings, which occurred thusly."

Logan, Roman, and Virgil all took turns summarizing the event: from Thomas forgetting his promise to attend Joan's stage reading in favor of an impromptu date with a cute guy to his _remembering it_ and then freezing like a deer in the headlights.

"And so, _they_ —" Thomas gestured passionately at Virgil and Roman— "continued to fight the whole rest of the night, and I never left to go and support Joan!"

"Looking at it objectively—so you guys can sit this one out—" Logan motioned to Virgil and Roman, and Virgil glared at him, hunched over and shielding with his hoodie. The air reeked of snake, but it had to just be his mind playing tricks on him. Right? "—would Joan have wanted you in attendance for only half of the reading?"

"I don't know," Thomas said despairingly. "It's just...being there for the sake of supporting them! And then this morning? This morning, they sent _one_ text." Thomas held it up, and it read: _WHERE WERE U LAST NIGHT F WORD FACE?_ Virgil's gut plummeted just seeing it, and Patton appropriately gasped.

They couldn't afford to lose Joan, but what Thomas was thinking was _way_ worse.

"I mean, what do I say?" Thomas asked them hopelessly. "The truth is honestly so...bad."

"Well, the only alternative to the truth is a fabrication in order to ease their concerns," Logan said blithely, only to stop at the expectant faces staring back at him. " _Oh_ , that's what you're implying that we should do, isn't it?"

"Maybe?" Thomas winced, and Virgil had to cut the rope before this train went any further.

"Lying is only gonna bring about more trouble, Thomas." He leaned forward, readying his Tempest Tongue if push came to shove. "You know this."

But Roman, of course, was five years old, and so sneered, "Then how would you describe all of the acting and performances he's ever done in his life? I mean, _that_ was all acting, in a way, and that wasn't so bad." He wiggled his shoulders at him like that was supposed to be intimidating.

"Well, yeah," Thomas started in response to them both. "I mean, I…I wouldn't want to say anything _too_ ridiculous, but...I mean, it's Joan! I just don't know how I could bring myself to lie to them."

Virgil had enough of this. "Patton, you're Thomas' Morality. What do you have to say about all this?"

What happened next was something worse than even Virgil's nightmares could have dreamed up.

"Hmm. Well, I think there are many views on honesty that we can look at to try to help us out here. Let's look at Kant."

Thomas choked violently. _"Patton_!"

Patton, for just a fraction of a second, fixed Thomas with the most annoyed, bored, charismatic glower of his life, and Virgil's gut plummeted as the expression vanished without a trace a second later. " _No,_ " he carefully enunciated, then exposed, "Immanuel Kant, K-A-N-T. He was a nineteenth century German philosopher who believed you should never lie, no matter what, because to lie to someone would be treating them as a means to _your_ end rather than their own person, with their own ends in mind."

Virgil told himself it was a fluke. It had to be a fluke. Please, dear God, let it be a fluke. To distract himself, he sneered, "Listening, Roman?"

"Well, there goes the acting profession!" Roman said with a dramatic gesticulation. "I mean, never lying at all?"

"Well, there's the thing," Patton agreed. "A dilemma was presented to Kant by French philosopher Benjamin Constant. Essentially, it was this: what if a known murderer came to your house, asking where your friend was, so they could kill them? Would you tell the truth then?

"What? _No_!"

"Patton" nodded, and Virgil hated himself for caging his name in mental quotations. "Kant's response: Yeppers. You should still tell them the truth."

Oh God.

Virgil could feel his reality slip away from him like butter, impossible to find purchase on. 

Oh God.

He hadn't felt like this since he left the Subconscious.

Oh God.

He grasped wildly, desperately, searching the world, his mind, reality for any constants, for any substance, any certainty he could cling to.

Oh God.

He tried to ward himself against the sickening dread curdling in his gut like rotten milk.

Oh God.

Virgil could almost hear Remus, latching onto the thought of milk souring in his gut, running wild with how that would slowly, awfully kill him from the inside.

Oh God.

"Yeah, doesn't sound great, huh, Virge?" Roman sneered like an oblivious fool, and Virgil realized he'd missed the second half of "Patton's" spiel. He didn't care. He stared across the way at the snake dressed in sheep's wool—puppy skin? He didn't know of any Light Side besides himself having animal associations, so the analogy didn't hold up well. It didn't matter. The fact remained.

Patton wasn't Patton. 

"Wow, Patton," Logan muttered approvingly, and Virgil wanted to scream. Even if Patton did know enough philosophy to make this argument, Patton wasn't smooth. He wasn't seductive. His voice didn't run over you like cool water after a hot summer day. He was overexcitement and impulsivity and he was pure, unencumbered strength and joy and happiness and _this wasn't Patton._ "Referencing famous philosophers? I'm impressed."

"Well, I'm Morality," the snake chirped in a tone too reminiscent of the friend he'd stolen. "I gotta know my stuff."

"'Impressed' isn't the word I'd use," Virgil growled, and "Patton" looked at him. His right eye flashed yellow, and then it was the warm, homey chocolate brown Virgil knew he would quickly grow to miss.

From there, it descended into madness, Roman and Thomas experimenting with a multitude of scenarios, none of which starred the _actual_ Joan, only a Joan-like face, in which Thomas would deceive Roman's character while Logan provided the exposition at the end of every act and Deceit cheered with Patton's gusto but none of his heart from the audience.

But then Thomas made the right decision and Deceit's desperation rose to a boil. Virgil didn't bother respecting his privacy the way he respected Patton's; Deceit would never do the same for him.

 _Almost there,_ Deceit thought frantically. _I can't lose now_.

Virgil scoffed and muttered under his breath, "My hoodie is pink," at the same moment he thought, _What's the matter, Deceit? Don't like being the villain?_

Deceit's façade whipped around to face him. "Virgil, buddy, c'mon, it's me. Aren't we friends?"

The yellow eye flashed again, and Virgil scowled back—or, at least, he tried to stare him down, but he lost his nerve at the last minute, averting his eyes. His gut toiled with doubt. "I'm not so sure we are," he muttered, and in his periphery, he saw the light of realization catch in Logan's eyes. _Finally_.

And then Deceit dug his heels in and Thomas—sweet, wonderful, amazing Thomas—resisted with everything he had. He knew what he had to do.

Deceit had lost.

And he made peace with that, but the bastard had the gall to speak in his tones while he wore Patton's face, and Virgil could have killed him then and there, in front of Thomas or no. "Wow, I'm so proud of you, Thomas," he said, dripping with silky sarcasm the room could have choked on. "You're so mature."

"I knew it," Virgil snarled.

Deceit matched glares with him, and his nostrils flared.

"Wait, what? Patton, what's—guys, what the hell is going on?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Logan asked, as if Thomas knew about this part of himself already.

A part of Virgil whispered that he had to have, or otherwise Deceit wouldn't be here, but he locked it away with a million padlocks.

"He's clearly—"

Deceit flicked his wrist and Logan's hand clamped over his mouth. It muffled his frantic screams and Virgil was _seconds_ from yanking his machete right out of Remus' grip to take Deceit's head. He might look like Patton, but he wasn't, and he would _die_ if he kept fucking with Virgil's family.

Thomas panicked and Virgil could do nothing to console him. The best he could do was work on damage-control and keep him functional as they went around on a merry-go-round before Roman said those terrible, dreaded words from which there was no return: "Are you ready to learn something new about yourself, Thomas?"

Virgil's world did not end with a bang that day. It ended with a "Yes."

* * *

Virgil takes deep breaths— _forces them_ —and rises to his feet. His knees knock together. With nothing better to do, he shines cobwebs.

* * *

Deceit had done a number on them, but they'd bounced back and he hadn't reared his cobra head since. They'd been on an uphill climb ever since he revealed himself, which did not mean he'd been right all those years about Thomas needing to accept all parts of himself and just meant they were far more resilient than he'd given them credit for.

And now it was Halloween, and Virgil had pulled out _all_ the stops. He'd poured his heart and soul into his costume, spending painstaking hours designing it and then making sure not a stitch was out of place on the finished product. He'd decorated the Conscious Mind the best ways he could think of, sans the cobwebs because Patton would have a heart attack and he loved him. But everything _else_ —skeletons, bloodstains, dismembered limbs. It was a Halloween extravaganza.

So, why the hell weren't they screaming?

"I mean," Thomas was pacifying at Virgil's incredulity that the lot of them were utterly unintimidated by him now, "we had this whole _thing_ discussing how you weren't a malicious entity. We bonded and stuff!" Thomas cast about for words for a moment. "We…we _understand_ now."

"Understand _what_?" Virgil spit. Acceptance couldn't come at the cost of intimidation, could it? He hadn't given up his fearsomeness when he took his seat at the table; only reined it in.

But here Logan, Roman, Patton and Thomas were, acting like they'd taken it out back and shot it.

"Your being _scary_ was really only a thing when you were isolating yourself," Thomas continued, heedless to Virgil's distress, "before you knew a better way to help me. Now that we've broken down that wall, you don't have to, you know, keep up the act."

Virgil was spitting lava. " _Act_?"

Thomas seemed to realize that wasn't the right thing to say, so he amended to, "Well, you know, not an act, but—a phase! It's like a phase."

"A _phase_?" Virgil's world whited out, and he flashed back a Halloween not as long ago as it could have been, with a conveyor belt, a fake death, and three dumbfounded, irritated, but impressed Dark Sides.

The memory bore a bitter taste after everything, but one thing held true about it, even now: the Unknowns had respected Virgil's ability to frighten. They overencouraged and indulged it, but they never stripped it from him, even after the literal and metaphorical defanging he had undergone when he Changed into Anxiety. Virgil could give the Unknowns few pieces of credit, but he could give them that.

So, what the _fuck_ was up with his family?

"Well, sure!" Patton chirped. "Everyone goes through phases. They're embarrassing, but we get over them. We're all just happy you're embracing who you truly are now, so we can be pals."

"Listen." Virgil gestured sharply with his hands. "We may be friends, but that doesn't mean I can't scare you anymore. I'm your anxiety. That is what I do."

"Well, not anymore, apparently," Logan said as if to rub salt in the wound. "How hard is it to distress someone? I mean, just watch." Logan turned to Thomas. "Thomas, given human beings' limited years, there's a cap on how many things you'll be able to make in your lifetime, meaning...you probably don't have the time to create everything that you want."

Thomas' face drained of color. "Oh God."

"Why would you _say that_?" Roman demanded, freefalling into a state of Gay Panic TM.

" _Jeez_ , dude," Virgil said. There were lines you just didn't cross.

"See?" Logan turned to him. "All it took was a little logic."

"But is it so wrong that Virgil's doing something a little different now?" Thomas challenged. "Why can't that phase be over? Patton's with me."

Patton threw out his arms. "The dog days are over." He beamed. "Get it? Because I'm a puppy dog? I've even got a tag and everything." Patton pointed.

"Take it from me, Virgil," Thomas said, turning to him. "As someone who's gone through a few phases myself, phases are like...Halloween costumes." He gestured around the room. "A time comes when you wear one around, but, eventually, it's time to take the costume off. The phases I've gone through are in the past. And I feel like I can finally be my real self now."

Virgil scowled. In the past, huh? Just a phase, _huh_? Virgil would show him just a phase. "Huh!" he said, and Thomas faltered with the most patented _oh shit_ face Virgil had ever seen. He smirked. "Interesting perspective, Thomas."

He snapped his fingers, and the room plunged into darkness. If they wouldn't fear his gentler displays, then the gloves were coming off. He was getting _personal_.

* * *

Virgil glimpses yellow out of the corner of his eye, by the doorway, and shrieks, throwing a lamp at the intruder. Nothing is there when it shatters against the wall. He doesn't bother mending it, staring at the spot where Deceit had stood.

He might be quick, but Virgil will be quicker next time.

* * *

"This is Halloween. This is Halloween…" Virgil sang to himself while redecorating for the holiday.

"Well done, Virgil," a familiar voice purred. "You're so… _evolved_."

Virgil tensed and shot around to see Deceit, standing a few paces away with his hands folded in front of his chest and a slimy smile on his face.

"Deceit." Virgil wrinkled his nose and scowled. "Real classy of you to sneak up on a Side in the middle of housekeeping." Virgil pulled Char over, stroking her back for comfort. He hoped it still looked menacing. He found himself waiting for Deceit to corrupt; maybe then, they could all be rid of him.

Deceit's eyes flickered down to Char and flashed. "A plastic toy?" he said. "A step down, don't you think?"

Virgil tensed. "Get out."

"I'm just saying. Weird, how you'd trade actual—"

" **Get out**!"

Deceit stopped and held his gaze, lip curling. "I just wanted to let you know," he said. "I took your advice." He snapped his fingers and reappeared in a dog costume similar to Patton's had been, with the nametag _Scooby Doo_ on it. "I went as something unsophisticated this year."

Virgil didn't know where to _start_ thinking about that, so he didn't. "Good for you. What are you even _doing here_?"

Deceit gestured around. "All this talk about Halloween—a season for dressing up and pretending to be someone you're not…" He tapped his chin. "You're right. A master of deception such as myself has no place in _that_ kind of talk."

Virgil knew his eyes were tinging orange and he didn't care. "Nice try, but me still being able to elicit fear doesn't take away from the fact that I've grown. So, don't even try that with me, Harvey Dense."

"Clever retort and convincing statement," Deceit said, and Virgil growled. "And nice costume—although far from your best."

"Just leave." Virgil had already grown tired of this. He didn't need Deceit twisting his head around in knots again. This was _his_ holiday, dammit.

Deceit chuckled. "Stylish clothing aside, just be sure to keep up that personal growth, _Virgil_." His yellow eye flashed. "Soon, you might just be rid of us all."

Virgil watched him sink out and grabbed a lamp, pitching it across the room into the wardrobe. It shattered, and the pull of the Subconscious grew. Virgil summoned two-by-fours and got to work.

* * *

"I'd like to call my next witness to the stand," Deceit drawled, rolling his wrist to gesture at Virgil where he sat with an imaginary jury.

Virgil leaned forward, flipped him off, and blew a raspberry.

He rolled his eyes and examined his gloves. "Fine. You don't usually have anything helpful to add, anyway."

Virgil popped back up in the witness stand, draping over the podium. "Fine. Ask me your questions." Like hell if he was going to let Deceit run roughshod over them all and convince Thomas he meant _anything_. He existed because Thomas hadn't always been completely honest, but the worst of those days were in the past and _he_ wanted to make them a full-time gig.

 _Fuck_ no.

"You are in control of Thomas's fears, are you not?" Deceit asked, predatory eyes locked on him, but Virgil had outgrown the era of fearing him. He was on his turf now, and Virgil learned from the best: you _never_ give up power.

"Oh my God!" He banged on the podium. "We all know each other. Who are these clarifications for? Cut to the chase!"

Deceit rolled his eyes, as if he thought Virgil was being typical. He could have wrung his neck. "Is it true you once said that, and I quote, 'Weddings are outdated overly expensive pageantry'?"

Blood roared in Virgil's ears. He couldn't be serious; dredging up the era where he served his every whim, bending over backward for a grand plan that had never been in anyone's best interest but Deceit's? Waving it in his face when he knew it was a thing of the past—a thing _everyone knew about_ , because he'd dispensed with the lies a long time ago to keep him far, far, _far_ at bay, until Roman opened his mouth and opened the floodgates wide.

But then it dawned on him: _not_ everyone knew about his sordid past. His eyes drifted over to where Thomas sat beside Patton, watching the proceedings in a suit, sick from worry and fear that clogged Virgil's throat, threatening to drag him under where he couldn't help him, couldn't protect him.

Thomas didn't know his roots had once run deep with the Unknowns. He had no idea he'd once shared a meal with Deceit, plotted with Deceit, obeyed Deceit. He didn't know the Side he had trusted—had welcomed into his heart after so much bad blood—had still neglected one crucial, critical, _vital_ piece of information that he deserved to know.

But Virgil knew what he would do if he found out, so Thomas could never— _ever_ —find out.

Virgil scowled at Deceit. "Yeah, well, I also once swore to Thomas that the drink he left alone in the other room for ten seconds was definitely poisoned and, if he drank it, he would die," he countered, cracking his jaw. "I'm not exactly a beacon of truth."

"So, you've changed your mind, then?" Deceit tilted his head, eyebrow arched.

"Next question."

He chuckled. Typical. "Very well. As Thomas' anxiety, do you have any relevant information about his norepinephrine levels in regards to these two conflicting commitments?"

Virgil snarled. "I think it's ridiculous that anyone is entertaining any of this." He turned to his family. "Guys, he's a liar. You literally know him as Deceit."

Deceit's gaze flashed for a moment Virgil didn't understand. If he didn't know him a lot better, he'd think it was hope. It vanished a second later, and Deceit said, "Glass houses, Vergilius."

Virgil's heart stopped dead and Thomas frowned. "What? No, his name's Virgil."

"Oh, is it?" Deceit purred. "I must have misheard. Pardon me. _Virgil_." Deceit gripped the sides of the podium, leaning forward. "You yourself said that you are not a beacon of truth."

"Yeah, because I'm _wrong_ a lot." Virgil could feel the ice getting thinner. If he was going down, he was taking Deceit with him.

" _Oh_ ," Deceit said. "So, you've never been reluctant to share anything with the group, then?"

Virgil's heart plummeted. He felt his expression slacken, wiping clean. He felt Thomas' anxiety spike in response to his reaction, unease and paranoia catching fire in his chest. "Don't."

Thomas couldn't know. If Thomas knew, everything would be ruined. _Virgil couldn't let that happen_.

"What?" Deceit said, stepping back and spreading his arms. "I just meant your name."

Thomas frowned deeper, and Virgil could hear it, bouncing, echoing around his head—the name he'd abandoned, left behind, shed for a purer, better life. " _Don't_."

"Maybe that's why it's so easy for you to recognize me for what I am." Bitterness coated Deceit's words then, and Virgil didn't care to speculate on why, but he feared why, because it could mean the difference between failure and victory. "Like I said before..." Deceit leaned forward, bracing his hands on the podium, all intensity and venom now. "It _takes_ a liar to _know_ a liar."

Virgil glared and locked his jaw. There would never come a day where Deceit tricked him into the truth.

 _Never_.

* * *

The duster falters and droops in Virgil's hand. He's at the end of memory lane now; the exit is in sight. But to get there, he needs to go through the worst of it.

How many times will he make peace with demons before they're finally put to rest?

* * *

Virgil glimpsed a flash of yellow out the corner of his eye on his way to dinner with the others.

He whirled, arms raised to beat Deceit back where he came from—and found a yellow and black door with a two-headed snake on it. At least, the beginnings of a door. It still hovered somewhere between here and the Subconscious, on another plain—insubstantial. Ghostlike.

Virgil stared.

He marched down the stairs and leaned over the railing. "Roman!"

Roman looked up with a mouthful of buttered toast. "Wha?"

"I need you to conjure me explosives and anything else you can think of."

"Whoa, whoa!" Patton surged to his feet, waving his hands and laughing nervously. "I kinda doubt that's necessary, kiddo."

"What, exactly, do you mean to explode?" Logan's eyes fluttered.

Virgil locked his jaw. "There's a new door developing," he said, locking eyes with Roman. "One for _Deceit._ "

Roman immediately shoved to his feet and dusted off his hands. "I'll be right there," he vowed.

"I'm sure that isn't—" Logan began.

"Not now, Specs," Virgil said.

Virgil would never forget Patton's haunted expression as he marched back up the stairwell.

* * *

Virgil was almost relieved when Remus showed up.

Almost.

"Oh, so you're going to baby them?" Remus asked Thomas in a mocking child's voice. He had cranked the shameless debauchery to five-thousand this time, shedding his softer, childlike veneer in favor of full-on asylum kink. "Do you wanna rock the cradle, Daddy? Rock the cradle in the treetop?"

Logan, being Logan, had none of his priorities straight. "Why _is_ the cradle in a treetop?"

"No one knows," Patton said sadly.

"Irresponsible parenting."

Virgil threw his arms up at them. Remus only _seemed_ harmless. What he did to Thomas couldn't be understated, and that couldn't be less of an understatement, with how wrecked Thomas looked in his rope with bloodshot eyes and terrible bags hanging under them. They had to get rid of Remus or…

Virgil couldn't think about the "or." He couldn't afford to. _Thomas wasn't bad_. Remus was. That's just how it worked.

" _Or,_ " Remus went on, "do you want to be the wind that causes the cradle to fall? And then the baby...dies!" He gestured, his eyes sparkling. Virgil almost laughed. He didn't, of course, because those days were long past...but he could have. Maybe. In a different life.

"That's horrible!" Thomas cried, eyes shining with frenzy and desperation.

"Look, pleasant metaphors aren't really my strong suit," Remus said, shrugging his shoulders.

"You have a strong suit?" Virgil arched an eyebrow at him.

"I do!" Remus beamed at him, a fraction of that childlike quality shining in them. Virgil's heart twisted. "My birthday suit."

It took all Virgil's self-control not to smile. For a moment—a treacherous, impossible moment—it felt like it used to, before everything went so utterly, completely wrong.

Virgil wished he could blame it all on Deceit, but he couldn't. Remus had chosen to violate his mind as much as Deceit and Rage had. They'd inflicted themselves on him at a time when he was already vulnerable, and they didn't even care. Had any of them so much as _bothered_ to apologize? Did it matter?

Virgil closed his eyes. God, why did it have to turn out like this?

"Okay!" Remus cried. "New metaphor: nudging the baby bird to leave the nest and take flight."

Virgil opened his eyes a slit and watched him carefully. He tried to predict the ending.

"Okay!" Thomas flung his arms out in front of him, ecstatic, and Virgil winced. "There! Yes! That's it! Oh, maybe there's hope for you after all!"

Virgil held up a finger. "Wait for it."

"And the baby bird immediately flies _straight_ into an unseen jet turbine and causes the entire plane to come crashing down!" Remus laughed manically, doubling backward from the force of it. "And no one survives!" He laughed even harder.

Then Logan stepped in like some hero to explain it all in simple terms: how Remus _was_ the most innocuous, because all he represented were flickers of unpleasant thoughts that haunted Thomas enough to chase him awake at night, and if Virgil could just leave him alone, Remus wouldn't have the same effect.

"Oh, looks like the cat's out of the ball bag!" Remus cried, turning to Virgil and pouting at him. Virgil clenched his fist. "Despite his best efforts, Virgil could never stop being the bad guy."

Virgil almost threw himself at him, but then he caught Thomas' frown out of the corner of his eyes. Despair choked him. God, no.

"Oh, and Patton," Logan added.

"Record scratch?"

As it turned out, Patton _and_ Virgil chastised Thomas for thoughts he couldn't control the whole night, and _that_ was the source of his insomnia; not Remus. He was powerless. He meant nothing

And finally, when it was over, Virgil turned to Remus. They both knew the millions of unspoken things that passed between them. Truths, lies, heartbreaks, and betrayals. It all swirled in a tornado of more emotion than either of them could bear. Or maybe that was just Virgil.

For a moment, Virgil thought he saw Remus' eyes shine. Then he spoke.

"You know what's funny?" He hated the way his heart broke as the words fell out. "I used to think you were some terrible illness." Virgil watched Remus' eyes flicker, because Deceit held no sway over the room now, and Virgil eyes didn't tinge yellow. "Now I know you're just…the common cold. A mild inconvenience that's gone before you know it."

Remus laughed brightly, even if it had a desperate edge to do it. "You tickle me, emo."

Virgil could hear his anxiety, though. _Are you still afraid of me?_

Virgil met his eyes and pictured his head cracking in two, brains oozing onto the floor in a chunky waterfall. _No_. _You're not worth it._

It had started with a doorway, but just like that, the door slammed shut.

Until Virgil opened it again. 

All the others—including Remus—had left, retreated back to the Conscious and Subconscious Minds, leaving Virgil with an almost jubilant sleep-deprived Thomas, too relieved to be rid of his demons for the night that he didn't care about the rest of it.

But Thomas had questions. Anxious questions swirling around inside him he fought down harder and harder every time they surged up. Doubts. Indecisions. Fears. Fears coated in memories of Virgil's deftness with calling out the others, in his easygoing banter with Remus—a relic from a lost time, not a reflection on who he had become, but still enough to make Thomas question, to make him doubt, to make him worry and fear.

And Virgil knew: Deceit had ripped wide the floodgates. He'd found the back door, and he was kicking Unknown after Unknown through until no Unknown remained. Until "Dark Side" was the only title left befitting the foul cockroaches from the other side. The place Virgil had once called home under a different name, with a different life.

Next would be Rage. Virgil didn't know how long Deceit would wait before dragging him through, but it was inevitable, and if Virgil could be sure of anything, it was that Rage wouldn't _hint_ at anything. He wouldn't _taunt_ Virgil with his past. Even if Deceit tried to coach him to do so, he'd fail, because Rage would not be dammed up. He would not be controlled. He did not do halfway. And with all the bad blood stored between Virgil and Rage—with the flashbacks to a gruesome death, with the terror Rage could menace him with—it was only a matter of time before Thomas learned the truth Virgil had fought for so long to conceal from him.

If Virgil wanted any hope of salvaging his relationship with Thomas, of retaining the luxury of staying within the light, then he _had_ to be honest. Completely honest. Omissions wouldn't do, not anymore.

It was time he left Deceit's ghost in the graveyard with the rest.

"You okay, buddy?" Thomas asked, arms crossed, a soft expression on his face.

"Huh?" Virgil looked up, then scoffed. Of course Thomas noticed his distress. He paid attention to him now. Right. "Oh, uh...yeah. Just..." Virgil closed his eyes for just a moment, to muster his strength. "I'm a little...disappointed in myself." And from honesty came the bitterest poisons. "I thought that I would be able to...protect you from them."

Thomas frowned in confusion. "The Dark Sides?"

"The others," Virgil agreed, because what few times he'd thought of them that way in his mind...he couldn't call them that. Not when his roots still sang with the sap their veins did. "I..." The panic attack was coming. He shook his arms out, dammed it up, moved his hands, anything to keep busy, to vent the excess energy without coming unglued at Thomas' feet. "I thought...I thought I knew how to handle them."

"Oh!" Thomas laughed—so dismissive, so casual. "I think we're _all_ trying to figure them out for now. It'll take some time to figure everything out."

"Yeah, but I should know better!" Virgil looked at Thomas pleadingly. If only he could figure it out before it was too late. Dammit, Logan, give him the smarts even in his exhaustion to figure this out so Virgil wouldn't have to say those damning words.

Thomas leaned back, alarmed and freaked by Virgil's intensity, but not repulsed. "Why should you be held to a different standard than any other Side?"

"Because—!" Virgil stopped and reined it in. _Here goes_ , he thought, and crushed his eyes shut to fight tears. "Because I was one of them."

Virgil opened his eyes for just a second to see Thomas step back with horror and revulsion and disbelief etched into every inch of his face, and then he ducked out. 

Virgil clenches cotton fabric in his hand and heaves on sobs, eyes crushed shut, anxiety shredding him from the inside out. The door should have slammed shut that day, should have stayed shut, but it didn't, because it couldn't, and it can't, and the monsters are still coming, and Virgil can't stop them, and they're going to drown them all, especially Thomas, in a sea of depravity and filth and lies and violence and pain and delusion and doubt and—

It started with a doorway, Virgil thinks, lifting his face to stare into a mirror that shows not his sloppy, tearstained face, but the level, unfeeling glower of Paranoia, the faintest smirk dancing over his lips, Terror, the machete, gripped soundly in his hand. But Paranoia looks different this time. There's no purple to his clothes, the way Virgil remembered it being; it's all stark black, and his eyes are pools of ink, but there are also spider legs spouting from his back, and his fangs are even longer than they should have been, and stained with pink, like he'd been sinking them into snake's necks. Skittering around his feet is an army of poisonous spiders.

The image sings with power. With the ability to _protect._ It sings with someone Deceit can't control, can't rein in. More. Plenty. _Enough_.

Virgil's sleeves itch and he scratches at his arm. The reflection scares him as much as it excites him, and he dares step forward, reach out. His finger barely brushes the silver surface, and it ripples like mercury, sticks to his finger. 

Virgil yanks his hand off and furiously wipes it off on the carpet. It sticks and stretches like taffy, and Virgil's anxiety grows until his room is screaming with it, but then it's just a spot of silver on the carpet at his feet. Virgil stares down at it. It seems to call him.

 _Protection_ , it sings. _Safety. Purity._

Virgil gulps. It doesn't feel pure. It feels horrible, sick, toxic. He looks down at his finger, and he wonders if some of it managed to absorb into his skin like actual mercury. He shudders and throws a shirt over the silver stain on the floor. 

Carefully, he pulls aside the wardrobe and the curtain and then the two-by-fours. The Subconscious' gravity is terrific, but Virgil is stronger. He takes the mirror as carefully as he can and chucks it into the void. It disappears into the swirling blackness, and Virgil quickly boards it all back up.

He stares at it, trembling, shaking, sick and uncertain.

Everything—all this pain, this doubt, this worry, this darkness and uncertainty—it started with a doorway.

And Virgil isn't sure where it stops. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the epilogue and then...I have to somehow finish drafting the sequel and get it up.
> 
> Uh...maybe follow me on [Tumblr](https://tssidesfics.tumblr.com/). I plan to post updates on how that's going on there, maybe a couple sneak peeks, answer any questions, what have you. You can also subscribe to the _Morality Is Grey but Trust Is Black and White_ series to be notified when the next fic goes up, and I will post a temporary update letting everyone know when the sequel finally goes up on here, as well. 
> 
> I am _definitely_ writing a cute little AU where Virgil got to keep his spiders, so that will also be going up in this series, but I don't think I'm going to upload a chapter on MG just to let you guys know, so if you want to read that, I really recommend subscribing. 
> 
> All right. It's the epilogue and then _you guys_ get a nice juicy indefinitely long hiatus. I really hope you're ready for this, because, uh...despite being an epilogue...it's a cliffhanger.
> 
> **ducks and covers in a massive fort you guys can't reach me in**


	31. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil makes a harrowing discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, guys. 
> 
> CW: Arguing, high emotions, acute anxiety and paranoid thoughts, reference to abuse and murder

"A weight is lifted on this evening. / I give the final blow." ~ "It Ends Tonight" by _All-American Rejects_

* * *

* * *

NOW VIRGIL PACES HIS ROOM FITFULLY, tearing at his hair, trying to make sense of everything. How did it go so wrong? How could he let it go _so wrong_?

Virgil has lost track of the days. His connection to Thomas holds tenuous; his well of despair drowns out every scrap of anxiety Virgil might give him. It leaves him vulnerable not only to the outside world but to himself. Every day Virgil spends in here is another Deceit, Remus or Rage can destroy him, and Virgil will never let that happen.

It started with a doorway, but Known is Known, Virgil thinks. He can still exert overt influence over Thomas, even if Thomas despises him. He learned his lesson the first time he listened to his insecurities; he would stand his ground and he would reinforce the walls of Thomas' Morality. Patton had fallen short, but he would not. He could not.

It started with a doorway, but Virgil lived as an unwanted outcast once; he can do it again. He doesn't need to wallow and ruminate and meditate and dread; he can do something for once in his worthless life.

He doesn't know how Thomas feels about him now, and he won't—not until he faces him. He started this song the day he accepted Deceit's offer of asylum deep within the Subconscious; today will be the day he ends it.

Virgil takes a deep breath and turns toward his door, straightening.

It started with a doorway, but it ends today.

When Virgil emerges—no, _marches_ —from his room, he finds…crickets. Not even crickets. Just an oppressive sort of quiet. He looks around and falters when he sees Roman's door. Crisscrossing red tape decorates its front, reading: _Do Not Enter_.

Why the _hell_ would Roman do _that_? What has Virgil missed? He knows he's been out of the loop for a while, walled up in his room with barely any grasp on Thomas' emotional state, but this feels more than a little extreme. What could have _possibly_ —?

Then it hit him: the wedding.

" _Shit_ ," Virgil hisses. "Patton!" He looks around frantically, but Patton's door is dimmer, the way it gets when Patton isn't home. Virgil tears down the stairs faster than he's ever moved in his life. He completely forgets he can just pop up downstairs in his urgency. " _Patton_!"

Patton is setting the dinner table—two settings; good, at least Logan is coming—when he hears Virgil, whipping around. His face lights up brighter than Virgil's ever seen it, a brilliant display of relief that twists Virgil's heart in knots. "Virgil!" He charges him for a hug, which Virgil returns without hesitation. "Oh, kiddo, you have no idea how happy I am to see you again." Patton's voice is tinged with tears.

"How bad was it?" Virgil pulls him away and holds his shoulders. "How bad was the wedding? Is Thomas okay?"

Patton hesitates, averting his eyes. "It was…" He gulps. "It was a lot." He seems to force himself to meet Virgil's eyes. "A lot changed. Kiddo, I think you should sit down."

"Sit down? Patton, what _happened_? Roman's blocked off his room. Where's Logan? _How is_ —?"

Then he sees him, standing behind the stout wall separating the kitchen from the living room, in capelet and bowler, towel draped over his hands as if he was in the midst of drying them, staring at Virgil. One eye shines brown. The other flashes yellow.

This time, Deceit doesn't vanish the second he's spotted.

" _You_ ," Virgil hisses, and shoves Patton behind him. "Roman! Roman, whatever drama queen routine you've got going, knock it off! We need you!"

"Oh, that is _perfectly_ necessary," Deceit purrs, setting the towel aside.

"You're damn right it is! Don't try to twist me in knots, Deceit. It's not going to—"

"Virgil," Patton whimpers, and some part of Virgil realizes it isn't the first time he's tried to get his attention.

But Deceit is already speaking again, and Virgil forgets. "Oh, _honestly_ , and you call Roman the drama queen? You're hilarious."

"Well, I'm sorry if I consider an _invasion_ a _serious threat_ ," Virgil spits.

" _Virgil_ ," Patton tries harder, but Virgil is too busy to answer him.

"An _invasion_?" Deceit swivels in place, looking around with his hands spread. "With what army?"

"Don't play dumb. I know your games by now. I know what you're doing."

"Vir—"

"Oh, you do, now, do you?" Deceit's eyes flash. "Looks like wittle Vergilius has it _all—_ "

" _Janus_!" Patton shrieks, and Deceit stops dead. "Please!"

Virgil launches away from Patton and whirls on him, only to jump seven feet to the side to get away from Deceit. Except that isn't the name he's going by anymore, if Patton is any indication. Virgil's gut drops gay into hell and Virgil watches in horror as Deceit stares at Patton, almost like a deer in the headlights.

"This is bad enough without you _actively_ trying to make it _worse_." Patton's voice is wrecked with tears now. Because of _Deceit_. Virgil could kill him. "Will you please just help me explain _without_ arguing?"

Deceit hesitates, then averts his face. "All right," he says, then looks at Patton. "I'm sorry."

"You can't be serious," Virgil breathes.

Patton turns to him. "Kiddo, please, just—can you please just stay calm while we talk about this? It's all really complicated and—"

"What's _complicated_ about it?" Virgil throws his arm out toward Deceit. "He's a snake! Look at him! _Look_ , Patton!"

Patton flinches away from him, then jerks his head to look at Deceit hopelessly. Virgil doesn't miss the cautious gaze Deceit studies him with. Virgil's collar itches and he tugs at it.

"He goes against _everything_ we've worked for! He'll hurt Thomas! He already _has_! If he hadn't twisted him up in knots over that wedding, we wouldn't _be here_ right now."

"The—" Deceit glows orange. "You keep doing this, Anxiety—rationalizing away everything you don't like as evil and malicious and forgetting all about the grey area! Look at you! You used to _be_ the grey area, and now you're pastel!"

Virgil whirls on him. "I _made_ this jacket and I happen to love it, because it's _mine_ and it has nothing to do with you demons."

" _Demons_?" Deceit snarls. " _That's_ what you call your own family now?"

" _Family_? You're not my family. You're the pack you _forced me_ to hang with when I had nowhere better to go!"

"We gave you a home!"

"You gave me a prison!"

" _Stop_!" Patton wails desperately.

"You used me every second I stayed with you!" Virgil goes on, heedless to Patton's distress, because he can't stop, not now. "You terrified me! You forced me to live with my murderer! And then you _tricked me_ into giving you my _actual name_ by telling me a made-up one! The same one you told Patton!"

Patton stops dead. "What?"

Deceit falters, looking frantically between Patton and Virgil. "Patton, that's not—"

But Virgil beats him to it. "His name isn't Janus," he says, turning to Patton. "That's just the thing he tells people when he wants them to trust him. He did it to me, too."

Patton stops, staggering and crashing into the table. He clutches his shirt and starts breathing hard, looking at Deceit. Virgil can feel his anxiety, but forces himself not to eavesdrop. "You…you lied?"

" _No_ ," Deceit insists. "Patton, please, list—"

"He can only tell the truth when he takes off his gloves," Virgil says. "The rest of the time, it's a lie."

"It is _far more complicated than that_ , you ungrateful little _cretin_ ," Deceit hisses.

Virgil whirls on him. "Oh, look. Gloves."

Deceit fumes, and for the craziest moment, Virgil thinks he sees a tear balancing on his lower lashes.

But, to his surprise, Patton has calmed down. "Wait…wait, Virgil, no." Patton touches his arm, but Virgil snatches it away. Patton yanks his hand back, holding his arms in the air. "Janus took off his glove when he told us," he tells him emphatically. "It's really his name. He didn't lie to us. _Or_ you."

Virgil stills, staring at him. Slowly, he looks at Deceit—Janus—then back at Patton. "No," he breathes.

"Vergili—"

Virgil's eyes snap to Deceit, and he kills the name in his throat.

"Virgil," Deceit says, with crippling softness. "Everything that happened—Patton is right. We need to talk. Just—"

Virgil launches away from him. "No." Virgil's hand shakes at his side. "No. I didn't risk everything getting away from you people just for you to invade my home. I know better. I _know_ you're not some—some noble-hearted antihero. I've seen what you really are. You can't fool me, Deceit. I won't fall for it."

" _Janus_ ," Patton insists emphatically, resting a hand on Deceit's arm. It looks so soft, so reassuring. Like he's part of his family. Like he trusts him.

No.

But then, like a beautiful ray of sunshine after the darkest winter, Virgil realizes. He laughs giddily. "Wait, you said he took off his _glove_." Virgil looks at Patton. "He didn't take off both, did he?"

Patton looks confused. "No?" Patton glances at Deceit, whose expression is guarded—because Virgil is onto him, no doubt—and then looks back to Virgil. "Why? Is that important somehow?"

"One glove isn't enough, is it, Deceit?" Virgil laughs giddily. "He still lied."

"Wait, what?" Patton looks lost now.

"I _never_ taken off both gloves," Deceit said carefully, cautiously. Because he can't afford to misstep now that Virgil is about to sniff him out. "I—" Deceit stops. His eyes flutter closed briefly, as if in frustration, and he sighs heavily. He looks at Virgil. "I would _love_ to show everyone my hideous reptilian hand, after all." Deceit pauses and glances down, then hums. "Well, except for our... _goodbye._ "

The argument, Virgil remembers, with the tears and screaming and cold-blooded terror. Deceit had ripped off both gloves to scream at Virgil. To tell him he was a sorry substitute for Paranoia. How could he ever forget?

Virgil steps back. "Don't." Virgil points at him. "Don't even…" Virgil's breaths are coming in harsher now.

Patton notices and steps forward. Virgil steps back.

"Kiddo…kiddo, I think you need to calm down," Patton consoles. "I know you have a lot of feelings about the others, but—"

Virgil shakes his head aggressively. "You…" He can barely breathe. " _This_ …"

He tugs harder on his hoodie. It feels so uncomfortable now—sweltering but like ice. He wants to rip his very _skin_ off. This anxiety attack is the worst he's ever felt. This cannot be happening, he thinks. Deceit _cannot win_. He's done everything. He's given up everything, all to keep him, keep _them_ , at bay, and now his hard work is getting thrown away.

No.

"Virgil, _please_." Patton is sobbing now. "I _know_ you're upset, kiddo, but let's just—"

" _ **No**_ **!** " Virgil roars as Tempest Tongue overtakes him. Patton stumbles back with a cry. Deceit catches him. " **You can't trust him! He'll hurt Thomas! He'll hurt you! He'll hurt everyone!** "

Patton stares, as if in terror. Virgil doesn't care. If he needs to be afraid to do the right thing all of a sudden, then Virgil is happy to deliver. "Virgil, kiddo—" Patton tries, but Virgil is finished being infantilized.

" **No**!" Virgil surges forward, and Deceit has to gall to push Patton behind him, as if to protect him. From _Virgil_. It's laughable. " **I'm not the kiddo**!" Virgil stares past Deceit to hold Patton's gaze. Patton is frozen under it. " **Not now! You will listen to me! You'll get rid of Deceit and never let him come back. You'll keep him away from Thomas! You'll keep him in the dark where he belongs**!"

Then Deceit decides to dig his hole a little deeper. "I was never in the dark, Virgil," he tells him quietly, as if to mimic sorrow. Virgil doesn't believe it for a second. "Not really."

Virgil whirls on him. Deceit falters, something strange flashing in his eyes, and Virgil snarls, " **I didn't ask you**."

"Virgil, please." Patton's desperation is palpable now. "Trust me. We can trust him. He just wants to look out for Thomas. Like all of us. Please—"

" **No**." Virgil's tone is dark and dangerous now, low, a little like a snake in the grass as it rattles its tail. You must become your worst enemy to defeat them, after all. " **You can't trust him**." A cold resolve quenches like steel in Virgil's chest, and he straightens. " **If you won't believe me now, then I'll prove it to you.** "

"Virgil, you don't need to prove anything." Patton looks ready to give up. Good, as long as he gives up Deceit. "Isn't he your family? You—"

Virgil's nostrils flare and he explodes. " **NO**!" Patton falls back into Deceit even harder. They both crash into the wall. " **He was never my family! He just pretended**."

"I don't think that's true." Patton steadied himself and Deceit. "Janus, say something, please."

Deceit just stares at Virgil, expression impossible to read but eyes shining. Virgil knows, if he could name what they shine with, he could destroy him.

" **Why did Roman lock himself away**?" Virgil demands. " **Where's Logan**?"

Patton hesitates. He's shaking, but he stutters through tears and says, "Roman…he just needs some time." Patton smiles at Virgil, but it's fragile. "And I think...I really messed up with Logan. Neither of them will talk to me."

" **So, they get it**."

Patton's eyes flash, the desperation reviving even harsher than before. "No! Virgil, please, calm down. You know that voice thing of yours scares me!"

Good. It should scare him. " **Did they agree to Deceit coming here**?"

"I…Logan…kind of did." Patton gulps. "He was just all facts. He didn't do much, last..."

" **But Roman didn't**."

Patton doesn't answer.

" **Good** ," Virgil says resolutely. " **Then at least there's one Side left in this Mindscape with sense**."

Patton chokes on a sob, lip quivering, shaking his head. "Virgil, please, don't do this. We can get through this. We just have to work together and listen to each other and—" He reaches forward to touch Virgil, to console him with the same hand he just used to console Deceit, and Virgil tears away from him with a hiss. Patton recoils. "Virgil…"

Deceit chooses that moment to speak. "Virgil." His voice is quiet, possessing an eerie timbre that reeks of deception, guile, and malice even through its sympathetic veneer. Virgil whirls on him. If possible, his expression wipes even cleaner. "Virgil, be careful."

Virgil locks eyes with him. " **I've been careful my whole life** ," Virgil tells him, " **an** d look where that's gotten me."

And with that, Virgil turns and strides away, nerves calming as he makes his way up the stairwell. Patton screams after him, but he pays him no mind. He knows Deceit is too deeply entrenched now for Virgil to weed him out on his own. He'll need help. More than that, he'll need some inspiration.

It started with a doorway, Virgil thinks, but it will end with a snake's head on a pike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it, guys. Now I just have to get the second part finished even though my mental health is in the toilet and the system I have to live with seems to actively _want_ to fail me. It might take a while to get _Trust Is Black and White_ written. It will be broken into four parts, and the first, Janus', is almost finished being drafted. If you would like, I can post the completed parts as I finish and edit them, or you can hang tight for significantly longer while I finish TBW as a whole and then post it similarly to how I did MG.
> 
> I will post updates on the drafting process, when other parts of this universe and related universes go up, my decision on how to update TBW, some writing help stuff and general TSSides tomfoolery (with the occasional errant fandom thrown in there for good measure) on my [Tumblr blog](https://tssidesfics.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I also might be opening a very, very small Patreon to try to help me in certain areas of my life, and any updates on that and ability to request things you'd like on there--I wouldn't charge you more than two dollars a month if this idea can hold any water at all--will also be posted there. I might open a GoFundMe as well so I can legally change my name as a trans individual, so, again, if you want to support me at all personally, please keep an eye open for that.
> 
> On a more sentimental note...God, it's been so fun going on this journey with you guys, and it's only halfway done. There's still a long way to go, and I am excited to walk it with you. You have all been the narrow rays of light in a pretty dark and ugly time in my life, and you've given me a lot of hope at times where I didn't have much. Thank you. Just for giving me the energy to fight a few more hours. Thank you so, so much. You guys have saved a life just by being awesome, supportive fans, and I think you all deserve to know that. 
> 
> Stay safe out there. Respect social distancing, wear masks, follow CDC guidelines. Good luck getting your vaccines as soon as you can, and even once you get it, still be careful. If we all do our part, we might be back to a pre-2020 lifestyle by the end of the year, except, hopefully, God-willing, one with less injustice and more active social movements making the world a better place, and governments who got a wakeup call. Hopefully. We can all put that energy out into the world and pray.
> 
> Stay safe, everyone. Thank you so much. I wish you the best time possible, and that there will always be glimmers of hope in your lives, no matter how dark it seems.

**Author's Note:**

> Summarized bolded section: Paranoia is dissociated while looking out for Thomas and helping Deceit search the Subconscious for the "new Side."


End file.
